


Cochrane Day

by miloowen



Series: The Post-A Million Sherds Universe [8]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Anniversary, Chronic Illness, Family Drama, Friendship, Love, M/M, Old Age, Romance, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:25:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 65,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2155572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miloowen/pseuds/miloowen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set thirty-five years into the future, in the post-Sherds universe.  Thirty-five years before, Will and Jean-Luc had had the best damned wedding Starfleet had ever seen, on Cochrane Day.  Thirty-five years later, Will takes one day at a time, navigating Jean-Luc's illness and fading memory, and his own sense of impending loss and depression.  He owes it to Jean-Luc, after all, and they'd had a few good years, living in Sitges; Jean-Luc teaching at the University of Barcelona and he composing.  Now, as another Cochrane Day approaches, Will finds it increasingly hard to celebrate what was once the best thing that ever happened to him.</p><p>The Riker/Picard wedding, as promised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eimeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eimeo/gifts), [soavezefiretto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soavezefiretto/gifts).



> Irumodic Syndrome is a degenerative neurological disorder that causes deterioration of the synaptic pathways. Symptoms are extreme memory loss, delusions, hallucinations, and death. It was suggested in the canon TNG timeline that Picard had the neurological anomaly present that could signal eventual development of Irumodic Syndrome.
> 
> "Guy" is sometimes used as a diminutive of Guillaume, the French version of William.
> 
> Readers who are familiar with the "Sherds" universe may understand why two of the Riker-Picard children are named Sascha (Alexandre) and Rose. For those not familiar with "Sherds," Will Riker suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder as derived from severe child abuse; it was Picard who helped him survive.

 

 

 

 

 

He was in that pleasant stage of sleep, just before waking, when he felt warm and content; he knew he was tucked into Jean-Luc, the way he always was, his head on Jean-Luc’s pillow and his face in Jean-Luc’s neck, his body pressed against him and his arm thrown across his chest.  He sighed, a small one, because this knowledge meant it was time to get up, but he was far too comfortable to even want to open his eyes.

“I presume at some point you’ll tell me why we’re sharing my bed?” Jean-Luc said, his voice a little deeper from sleep.

He opened his eyes and smiled, the same smile he’d been giving Jean-Luc for almost thirty-five years.

“Good morning,” he said, kissing Jean-Luc softly on his cheek, so papery-thin now that sometimes he was afraid he would tear it simply from the act of kissing. 

“Good morning,” Jean-Luc said, and then he remarked, surprised, “We’re not on the _Enterprise_.”

Will reached out and pulled Jean-Luc into him, encircled him with his arms, and held him tight.  “No,” he said softly, against Jean-Luc’s ear, “no longer on the _Enterprise_ , although I shared your bed – and we shared our bed – there, too.”

“We did?” Jean-Luc asked.  His face was pressed into Will’s shoulder.

“Mmmh-hmmm,” Will said, kissing the top of his head.  “I was sick, and you helped me to be well.”

“I remember,” Jean-Luc said.  “You were so terribly ill.  I was afraid I would lose you.”

“But you didn’t,” Will reminded him gently.  “You can’t get rid of me, I’m afraid, Jean-Luc.  I’m here for the long haul.”

“Did I marry you?” Jean-Luc asked.

“Yes,” Will answered, pulling Jean-Luc in closer.  “It was a great wedding.  Everyone had a good time.  The food, the music…You even danced with Mrs Troi.”

“I did not,” Jean-Luc said.

“You did,” Will remembered, and he felt like laughing.  “And then we stayed together on the _Enterprise_ , and when I got the _Titan_ , you came with me.”

Jean-Luc sighed.  Then he said, “Will.”

“Yes?”

“You tell me this every morning.”

“Yes,” Will agreed.

“Don’t you ever get tired of having to tell me?” Jean-Luc glanced up at him, his dark eyes anxious.

 “No, Jean-Luc,” Will Riker said, kindly, “I never get tired of telling you.”

They were quiet, Jean-Luc content to be in his arms.  Perhaps, Will thought, he was trying to organise his thoughts, trying to decide if he was hungry, or if he needed to pee.

“How long have we been married?  Will?”

“It will be thirty-five years in two weeks,” Will said.  “We got married on Cochrane Day.”

“Thirty-five years,” Jean-Luc breathed.  “And aren’t you bored, Will Riker, with being married to someone who must be ancient?  I must be ancient, mustn’t I?  I seem to remember I was considerably older than you.”

“You are thirty years older than me,” Will corrected, “almost to the day, and, no, you’re not ancient, and no, I’m not bored.  I’ve never been bored, with you.”

“And you don’t get tired of telling me this every morning,” Jean-Luc repeated.

“No, I never get tired of telling you every morning,” Will said, kissing him again.  “I’ve been the luckiest man in the universe, Jean-Luc, and every time I tell you, I remember just how lucky I am.”

“You are my sweet boy,” Jean-Luc said, his voice suddenly strong, and then he added, “I used to tell you that, once.”

“In French,” Will whispered, blinking back sudden tears.  “You used to tell me in French.”

“ _Tu es mon garçon doux_ ,” Jean-Luc said, and when he looked up at Will, his eyes were steady.  “ _Je t’aime beaucoup, mon Guy_.”

Will took a moment to recover.  “You haven’t called me that in a while,” he said, finally.  “Are you hungry?  Would you like me to bring you your tea?”

Jean-Luc said, “I don’t think every part of me is as ancient as my memory…I don’t suppose --?”

Will grinned.  “You can indeed suppose,” he answered.  The contentment he’d felt before returned.  It was going to be a good morning.

 

 

 

 Afterwards, he helped Jean-Luc into the shower, and they showered together, and he was careful, when he washed Jean-Luc, to soap him gently so as not to bruise.  There’d been a time when a shared shower would have led to making love again, but those days were gone for Jean-Luc, and truth be told, mostly gone for Will as well.  He was only seventy-two – Jean-Luc had still been captain of the _Enterprise_ , at seventy-two – but the consequences of his long illness, and a subsequent injury while captain of the _Titan_ had led to an artificial pancreas and a realisation that Jean-Luc needed him far more than Starfleet did.

 Jean-Luc could still dress himself and so he did, even though he still shunned the brighter colours Will had been trying for thirty-five years to get him to wear.  Will cleaned up the head – he refused to call it a bathroom – and checked to make sure that Jean-Luc was okay to do his exercises.

In the kitchen, Will opened the back door and then the window, and the kitchen was filled with sunlight and birdsong.  Spring was on its way – there was a green haze around the trees, and the blood oranges and Meyer lemons and pears were all in bloom.  He filled the kettle with water and placed it to boil on the stove, found Jean-Luc’s mug and his tray, and set about making the simple breakfast Jean-Luc preferred.  Outside the back door Mercè had left a basket with fresh eggs and sprigs of parsley.  He took the croissants he’d baked last night and warmed them up in the oven, set the eggs in the sink, and took the kettle off the stove before its whistle bothered Jean-Luc, as he could no longer tolerate high-pitched sounds.  He poured the water into the ceramic teapot and set the tea in to steep, and then he finished arranging the tray.  Even though he no longer breakfasted with Beverly, Jean-Luc still preferred that a crock of marmalade be set on the tray.  Now that they grew their own blood oranges, the marmalade was homemade.

When the croissants were warm, he wrapped them in a towel and set them in the basket.  Then he replicated himself a cup of coffee – he’d make coffee later, after Jean-Luc had eaten – and he walked into their breakfast room where Jean-Luc would now be waiting.

“There you are, Will,” he said, smiling.  He’d opened the window in here as well.

Will set the tray down on the round wooden table, and poured Jean-Luc his first mug of tea.  “Are you sure you won’t be chilled?” he asked.  “I could get your sweater.”

“No, it’s a lovely day. I’ll be fine,” Jean-Luc said.  “Perfect, every time.”

It was stupid –one of his ten words – but it still made him happy to know that he could make the captain’s tea the way he wanted it.  Once, he’d made the captain happy by running his ship the way he wanted it; now it was merely the captain’s breakfast.  He’d read somewhere, and he didn’t know who, and he didn’t know when, that aging was a process of gradual diminishment.  His depression, which had plagued him his whole life, didn’t need much to rear its ugly head, and he squashed the thought of aging.  He’d accepted those thirty years.  And Jean-Luc had cared for him.  It was simply his turn.

He watched Jean-Luc eat and sipped the replicator coffee.  As soon as he’d escaped Beverly, he’d gone back to real coffee, and now that they lived here, in the villa in Catalunya which Jean-Luc had inherited from his godmother, he’d discovered cafè amb llet (similar to the café au lait Jean-Luc had grown up with); it was a joy to prepare it and then drink it in the morning.

“Aren’t you eating, William?” Jean-Luc asked now.  Then he said, “I suppose I ask you that every morning too.”

He grinned.  “You’ve asked me that every morning since I moved in with you when we were back on the _Enterprise_ ,” he said, laughing.

Jean-Luc glanced up at him suspiciously, and then he said, mildly, “Only because you nearly starved yourself to death.”

“In about an hour or so, Jean-Luc,” Will said seriously, reaching over and taking Jean-Luc’s hand, “I will take the fresh eggs that Mercè left us this morning and make a pair of omelets with goat-cheese and fresh parsley and chives.  Okay?”

“Most definitely okay,” Jean-Luc said.  “You made this marmalade, didn’t you?”

“We did,” Will said, “out of our own oranges.”

“I remember.  We picked them, and peeled them.”  He sipped his tea and then delicately, cat-like, wiped his mouth.  “You made juice,” he remembered, surprised.

“For you,” Will said.  “I don’t drink orange juice.  Not even blood orange juice.”

“No,” Jean-Luc said soberly, “I know you don’t, Will.  But you’ve been having good days, haven’t you?  Here, in this house?”

Will wanted to pick Jean-Luc up and hold him.  “Yes,” he agreed.  “I have good days, here in this house.”  He stood up and picked up the tray.  “I’ll take this back to the kitchen,” he said, “and clean up.  You fetch your sweater and then we’ll take our walk, okay?”

“Okay,” Jean-Luc answered solemnly, but Will could see his dark eyes were twinkling just a bit.  “I’ll wait for you, outside.”

“With your sweater,” Will said.  “I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

“Don’t be a nag, Mr Riker,” Jean-Luc said.  “I’m perfectly capable of deciding whether I am warm or cold.”

“Sir,” Will answered, and he walked out of the room.

 

 

 

           

It was stupid, and there was his word again, but the criticism stung, a bit.  And it _was_ stupid because it was a longstanding criticism, one that dated back to their first years on the _Enterprise_ , when he’d been adamant in his refusal to allow the captain to participate in away missions, or in anything dangerous; and then, much to the detriment of his own career, he’d also been adamant in rescuing the captain from every scrape (the captain’s word, not his) in which the captain had been involved.  Dozens, as it had turned out, despite his best efforts to keep Jean-Luc safe.  The irony was that Jean-Luc had chosen him to be his First precisely because there was his strong sense that the captain belonged on the bridge, in relative safety, surrounded by security.  One time, and for the life of him he couldn’t remember when, and he supposed that was bad news, since it was his job to be the Sacred Holder of Memories, in the same way that Deanna had been the Sacred Holder of the Chalice of Rixx, Jean-Luc had turned to him and had said, “Cluck, cluck, Number One – don’t be such a mother hen.”  It had stung then, too.

He took a deep breath.  He turned the water on and hand washed the few dishes and then wiped down the wooden tray.  He set the dishes in the strainer to dry, put the tray back in its place in the cabinet, and dried his hands.  The truth was he was having some trouble.  It wasn’t, he thought, that this was difficult.  And it had been his own choice – he could have stayed on the _Titan_ , after his injury.  But the injury had reactivated his depression, and he’d thought taking an extensive medical leave – it had been, at that point, almost thirty-two years since his last one – might be a good idea.  Then it had become apparent that Jean-Luc’s tentative diagnosis was becoming reality, and the choice had been easy.  Jean-Luc had risked his reputation and his life to save _him_ , once.  He’d wrapped him in a love so profound he still found it hard to believe it had been real, and they’d had, despite many predictions to the contrary, a good life together.

He and Jean-Luc had sat down together, then, with Sascha, and Rose, and Jean-Guy, and discussed what they would do.  Jean-Luc had offered up the villa in Sitges, which had been their holiday home, as their permanent home.  Rose had suggested that perhaps her father might enjoy teaching a class or two at the University in Barcelona – in archeology, for example, or diplomacy; Jean-Luc had been reluctant, but Rose, using her extensive medical knowledge, had explained that the memory loss was not likely to affect his scholarship for some time.  Then it had been Will’s turn.  He’d figured that he’d find something.  He’d figured that caring for Jean-Luc – doing all the little things that he’d done to run a ship and just applying them to a much-smaller scale – would be enough.

Sascha had been furious.  Will was sure _he_ didn’t have a temper – so perhaps Sascha got his temper from Jean-Luc. 

“You have been writing music,” he said, “for fifty years.  When are you going to do something about it?”

Jean-Luc, that traitor, had sided with Sascha, and his fate was sealed.  Once a month he travelled to Starfleet in Madrid, where he worked very quietly on a few projects for which HQ in San Francisco needed his expertise.  Every once in a while, he would find himself on a trip to Paris, or London; and, once a year, to San Francisco.  But, using Jean-Luc’s privileges at the University of Barcelona, he found himself with a studio and a small following of students who called themselves the “Admiral’s groupies.”  It was embarrassing, but he was working in a way he’d never thought he could.

And yet…Maybe, he thought, they simply needed to get away, for a bit.  They could take a holiday.  With their anniversary coming up, it would be the perfect time to do something fun.  There were plenty of places on Earth he’d never been.  Plenty of ruins to explore for Jean-Luc, plenty of cafés and bars where he might hear some good music played.  He’d talk to Rose, when she arrived.  She’d know whether her father was physically well enough to travel.

“Will!  Will!”

How long had Jean-Luc been shouting?  He rushed to the door and flung it open, to see Jean-Luc staggering up the stone path, his sweater half on him and flapping, his hat gone.  He was down the path and at Jean-Luc’s side in seconds, and he gathered Jean-Luc in his arms, holding him tightly, listening to his ragged breathing and his continued “Will, Will,” only whispered, now.

“Shhh,” he soothed.  “It’s all right, I’m right here.  I’ve got you.”  He stroked Jean-Luc’s back in a circular motion, lightly, and then he kissed the top of his head.  “You’re overheated, Jeannot,” he said, using Jean-Luc’s childhood nickname.  “And you’ve lost your hat.”

“Will,” Jean-Luc repeated.  “Will.”

“I’m right here,” he said.  There was no point in pushing him; when he got stuck like this it was best to just hold him and reassure him.  “Let’s go inside and get you something to drink.  Okay?”

“Will,” Jean-Luc said, but he allowed himself to be guided up the stone path and into the kitchen.

Will shut the kitchen door, and led Jean-Luc over to the old white table.  It took some time, before Jean-Luc would agree to sit; he clung to Will, sweating and trembling.  Finally Will placed him in the chair, and then he took a tea towel and wet it, wringing it out, and then used it to gently wipe the tears, and the sweat, from Jean-Luc’s face.  He replicated a cup of tea and put two teaspoons of honey in it, and then sat down beside Jean-Luc.

“Drink up,” he said softly.  Then he realised Jean-Luc was still tangled in his sweater, and he unwrapped it from around Jean-Luc’s shoulders and chest and set it down.

“You put honey in this,” Jean-Luc complained.  “You know I don’t like honey in my tea.”

“I know,” Will answered, “but you’ve had an upset, and you need a bit of sugar.”

“I thought I’d lost you,” Jean-Luc said.  “I thought maybe you’d taken the shuttle, and you weren’t going to come back.”

“Is that what you thought?” Will murmured, taking Jean-Luc’s hand.

“But you didn’t, did you?” Jean-Luc took another sip of tea.

“No,” Will said.  “I’m right here.”

“And you wouldn’t,” Jean-Luc added.

“I wouldn’t what, my love?” Will asked.

“Take a shuttle and leave me.”

Will took a breath, because the memory of the time he had taken a shuttle and left was threatening to bubble to the surface.

“I will never take a shuttle and leave you, Jean-Luc,” he promised.

“I still hate honey in my tea,” Jean-Luc said.

Will smiled.  “I know.”

Jean-Luc drank the tea anyway, even though he hated honey in it.  “I waited for you hours and hours,” he said now, peering into his empty mug.  “Hours and hours and you didn’t come.  And then,” he said, and his face began to crumble, “I couldn’t get the damned jumper on correctly – oh, God.  Will.  What am I to do?  How am I to do this?  There’s no _me_ anymore.  The great Jean-Luc Picard,” he said bitterly, “can’t even get his fucking jumper on.”

“And there was a time,” Will said, still holding Jean-Luc’s hand, “when I was dying, and there seemed no point in anything anymore.  When it was too hard to even think about getting out of bed.  Do you remember, Jean-Luc?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“And you asked me to consider the possibility – that was the word you used – the possibility of sharing a future with you.”  Will paused.  “Do you know, I didn’t even realise that you were proposing to me, then?”

“Was I, Will?” Jean-Luc asked, and his eyes were beginning to clear, a bit.  “Was I proposing to you?”

“I think you were,” Will said.  “The second time you proposed it was Valentine’s Day…and we were here, in Sitges, on the holodeck.”

“That I do remember.”

“But the first time I was in my room in sickbay, and I was dying, and I just wanted everything to stop.  And then you asked me,” Will said, “you asked me to share your life with you.”

“And you said yes.”  Jean-Luc placed his other hand on top of Will’s and smiled.

“I did,” Will agreed.  “I said yes.”

“And here we are,” Jean-Luc said, “in the future.  And you are stuck with a very old man who very soon will not even remember how to take a piss.”

Will sighed.  “I think there is some time, Jean-Luc,” he said, “before it comes to that.”

“And was there some moral to this story, Will?” Jean-Luc asked.

“Yes,” Will said, and he looked into hazel eyes.  “I want you to consider the possibility, Jean-Luc, of sharing your life – and your future – with me.  Here, in this house, which is now our home.  Will you think about it, Jean-Luc, and tell me in the morning?”

“I shall probably forget everything in the morning,” Jean-Luc said, “including the fact that I am _already_ married to you.”  He was quiet and then he said, “Yes, Will.  I will consider it, and tell you, in the morning.”

“Good,” Will said, another crisis having been averted.  “I believe I promised you an omelet from Mercè’s eggs.”

“We were supposed to take our walk,” Jean-Luc remarked.

“I think you should eat something first,” Will answered, “and _I’m_ hungry.”

Suddenly Jean-Luc smiled and it was as if the sun had appeared.  “Well,” he said, his old voice back, “if our Mr Riker is hungry, he had better eat.”

“Omelets it is.”  Will rose, and took the skillet from the rack on the ceiling, and took a bowl from the cupboard, and washed his hands.

“Will.”

Will dried his hands and broke an egg into the bowl.  “Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” Jean-Luc said.

“I know.”  He cracked another egg, and whisked them together.

“I won’t dwell on it.”

“No,” Will said.  “There’s no point in dwelling on it.”  He rinsed the parsley and the chives and began to dice them, his hands moving quickly.

“You never opened that restaurant with Guinan,” Jean-Luc said, after a while.

“No,” Will agreed.  “I like what I’m doing now.”  He finished dicing the herbs and folded them into the eggs, and then added a pinch of salt.  He cracked some pepper into the mixture, and then took the cheese out of its cloth wrapper.

“You are a composer,” Jean-Luc said.  “I missed your band, when we lost the D.”

Will grated the cheese into the bowl and turned the fire on under the skillet.  He poured a tablespoon of olive oil into the pan, and waited for it to warm.

“May I have another cup of tea?” Jean-Luc asked.

“Of course,” Will said, and he pulled the skillet off the fire so the oil wouldn’t burn, and took Jean-Luc’s mug and replicated more tea.  “No honey, this time,” he said, setting it on the table.

“No, no honey,” Jean-Luc replied.  “I really don’t like honey in my tea.  I don’t like to wear my jumper either.”

Will sighed.  “And mean old Will makes you do both,” he said, and then he instantly regretted it.

Jean-Luc didn’t take offense.  “It was your turn,” he said instead.

The skillet on the fire and the omelets in the skillet, Will turned around and asked, “What was my turn?”

“I was mean to you, all those years,” Jean-Luc said, and his lip turned upward, just a bit, as if he were trying not to smile.  “Yelling at you.  Threatening to demote you.  Beating you up, once.  Making you dock the saucer section manually.  It seems only fair that you should be able to get me back.”

Will was laughing, tears streaming down his face.  “Is that what I’m doing, Jean-Luc,” he asked, “making you drink tea with honey and wear a stupid sweater?”

“Most certainly, Mr Riker,” Jean-Luc said, “that is precisely what you are doing, in your own passive-aggressive way.”

They ate the omelets in companionable silence.

“I suppose you will want me to take that damned walk now,” Jean-Luc said as he wiped his mouth. 

“Oh, fuck you, Jean-Luc,” Will said.

“Ha!” Jean-Luc grinned.  “There’s the Will Riker I know and love.”

“You are incorrigible, you know that?” Will said, taking Jean-Luc into his arms.

“And you are a royal pain in my arse,” Jean-Luc replied.  “I shall go read in the study, I think.”

“And leave me to clean up,” Will said, but he wasn’t complaining.

“You do it so well, Number One.”

“Years of practise, Jean-Luc,” Will called after him.  “Years and years and years.”

As mornings went, this one hadn’t been too bad.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean-Luc disappears.

 

 

 

           

            As he’d suspected – and, perhaps, if he were being honest with himself, hoped – Jean-Luc was asleep when he’d checked on him.  They’d shared a study when they’d lived in married captain’s quarters on both ships, but this villa had been in Jean-Luc’s godmother’s family for generations, and it was quite large.  Jean-Luc had his own study/library, and he had his own office, which he used primarily for ‘Fleet business.  By mutual agreement they’d turned the back bedroom into a music room, and he did most of his writing and composing there.

            Jean-Luc still had his book in his hand, and Will knew from experience that if the book fell, there would be yet another upset.  Sound, which had always bothered the captain shipboard, now disturbed him deeply, and left him anxious and afraid.  Gently he removed the book from Jean-Luc’s hand – mentally rolling his eyes when he read the title; apparently Jean-Luc was rereading _The Aeneid_ – and set it on the antique reading table beside his chair.  He placed his palm on Jean-Luc’s cheek, softly, and then removed the shawl from the back of the chair and draped it over his lap.  Jean-Luc might complain about the placement of the shawl or he might not, when he awoke, but his complaining was less likely to be as vociferous as it was over the damned sweater. 

            He figured he had twenty minutes.  The captain had always been a light sleeper; their first year together, when he was in recovery from his illness, had been difficult because he’d still been waking with nightmares and the occasional night terror, guaranteed to disturb the man sleeping beside him.  In fact, Will thought, as he opened the back door and stepped outside into the warm, pale sunshine; Jean-Luc was often awake before he even knew he was having a nightmare.  Now, any noise at all was likely to wake him; sometimes Will found himself wishing he had the courage to sleep in another room.

            He didn’t, though.  Have the courage to suggest separate bedrooms.  If he got up to pee in the middle of the night – the joys of an aging prostate – it woke Jean-Luc; if he snored (which was happening more often, probably due to his inability to maintain a decent weight, an irony in itself), it woke Jean-Luc.  And despite all of these interruptions, Jean-Luc was still programmed to wake before alpha shift, the habit of a lifetime.

            He walked down the stone path, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his skin.  There was a light breeze coming in off the water, bringing with it the scent of salt and the realisation that he had to comm. Pere at the marina for maintenance on the boat.  It would, he thought, as he walked down to the pond he’d dug, have been a perfect day for a sail.  Jean-Luc hadn’t asked about the boat yet; he didn’t know what he would say when he did.  Perhaps, he thought, he would ask Jean-Guy the next time he came home if he wouldn’t mind sailing with them. 

            Jean-Luc’s sunhat was floating in the pond.  He’d told Jean-Luc to wait for him on the patio, and yet he’d come all the way down here by himself, and then had somehow managed to forget where he was and when he was.

            It was terrifying.

            He bent over the water and pulled the hat out, wringing it dry.  He could leave it on the patio table and then reshape it overnight.  He turned around and walked back to the house, pausing on the patio to leave the hat in the sun, and then he was standing in the kitchen, the day stretching out before him; all the things he should be doing but probably wouldn’t, because he never knew, from one minute to the next, what he was going to find.

 

 

            Of course, Jean-Luc was gone from the study when he looked in.  The shawl was on the floor; the book still on the table.  He took a deep breath, because logically Jean-Luc had probably just gone to the head.  It was a big house, and there were any number of places that Jean-Luc could be, either on the ground floor or on the second floor where their bedroom – and the kids’ bedrooms – were.  He checked first the two heads on the ground floor, the one for guests, off the kitchen, and then the main one off their dayroom.  Then he climbed the stairs to the second floor and systematically checked every room, even the walk-in closets.  The attic door was closed and locked; no one used it anymore, now that Sascha was gone, except for storage.

            “Jean-Luc?” he called.  Then, “Captain?” because sometimes that got a response.

            He took the stairs two at a time.  Round the house, through the dayroom, the formal dining room, the breakfast nook, the music room, the heads, Jean-Luc’s study, his office, the all-purpose room which they used for entertaining (or they had), the kitchen.  He opened the back door to the patio and the garden, where there was no place, except the shed….but that door was also locked.  Could he have gone into the garage?  Back through the all-purpose room to the garage; the air car was there, Jean-Luc was not.

            Shit, he thought, and then he had to hold onto the doorway, because he wasn’t breathing; of course he wasn’t breathing, dizziness and then panic as the thought came, unbidden, that he had spent the last sixty-four years in a nightmarish and seemingly never-ending search for those he had lost.  He thought, desperately, I don’t have time for this, and he reached into that old toolbox McBride had left him and looked for something that would derail the cottony feeling that was the harbinger of a flashback and allow him to breathe.  Pause the memory, he thought, pause the memory and take it out, put it in the file cabinet, don’t think about it, just do it.  Now put your hands on your diaphragm and force yourself to breathe; if you pass out, how will that help Jean-Luc?

            Flex your muscles, he thought.  Bring yourself back into your body.  Take the time to do this now.  Anyone peering through a window would have thought he’d lost his mind as well, but there was no choice, and he stamped his feet, bringing feeling back into his legs, shook his arms, rolled his shoulders, and breathed.  Count the breaths, do it slowly, take your time.  Really, Number One, he could hear Jean-Luc say, after thirty-five years you should be able to do all of this without any issues.

            The dizziness passed, and he closed the door to the garage.  Jean-Luc had gone out; that was the only logical explanation.  He’d left by the front door, and where he’d gone from there was anyone’s guess.  Mercè was next-door, she and her husband Pau, although he was undoubtedly still at work; perhaps Jean-Luc had seen her and walked over to say hello.  He wouldn’t think about the other things Jean-Luc might have done – walked down the road in either direction, to the centre of town, to the sea.  He walked back into the house, grabbed his communicator from the kitchen, and strode through the front door.  He’d been twenty minutes or so outside; another fifteen minutes searching through the house; five minutes to calm himself down.  Jean-Luc could have been gone for forty minutes.  Walking, at his age, in the sun.  Halfway to the centre of Sitges, then, or halfway to the sea.  Or maybe collapsed – no, he thought.  I am panicky enough.

            Of course he wasn’t sitting at the table on their verandah.  He walked down the stone path and stepped over the gate, and then walked the few metres to Mercè’s smaller bungalow.  He mounted the steps and pressed the door chime; Laia opened the door.

            “ _Almirall_ Riker,” Laia said.  She was twelve, almost thirteen, and reminded him of Rose.

            “ _És la teve mare a casa?_ ” he asked.  And then, because the anxiety was building again, “ _És el capità aquí?_ ”

            He heard Mercè call, “ _Qui és?_ ”

            “ _El almirall_ ,” Laia answered. In standard she said, “Come in, sir.”

            He stepped inside.  “ _Parlo català_ ,” he said, and she laughed.  “How come you’re home?” he asked.

            “Holidays,” she replied.  Of course.

            Mercè came down the hall.  “Guillem,” she said, smiling.  “Come into the kitchen.  Have a coffee.”

            “I can’t,” he said.  He already knew the answer to his question, but he asked it anyway.  “Is Jean-Luc here?”

            “No,” she said slowly.  “What’s wrong?”

            Will said, “He was napping, in his study.  I went into the garden for maybe twenty minutes.  When I came back inside, he wasn’t there.  He’s not in the house.  I don’t know where he is.”

            “ _Mare de Deu_ ,” Mercè said.  “Come into the kitchen.  Have that coffee.  We’ll think about where he could have gone, and then we’ll make some calls.”  She looked at his pale face and said, “There’s no point in you going out on the road to look for him until we let the Guardia know he’s gone.”

            “I can stay next-door, Mamà,” Laia offered.  “If the captain comes back, I’ll comm. you.”

            “Okay,” Will said.  “Sorry, I just didn’t expect…it’s been a bit difficult this morning already.”

            He followed Mercè into her large whitewashed kitchen, and mutely took the _cafè_ _amb llet_ she gave him.

            “He could have gone anywhere,” Will said.

            “You have to think what the most likely place is, and we can tell that to the Guardia.”

            “I don’t know,” he said.  Over thirty years as a command officer and he was having trouble making a decision.  “Half the time he thinks we are on the _Enterprise_ again…and the other half of the time he doesn’t even know who I am.  I have to remind him, every morning.”  Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration, but it was how he currently felt.  “I should comm. Rose,” he said.

            “Could she come?” Mercè asked.

            Currently Rose was with Starfleet medical in Paris.

            “She was coming home anyway,” he said.  “Jean-Luc’s due for his check-up tomorrow, and Rose was going to be there.  She was planning to stay the weekend…it’s our anniversary soon, and she wanted to know what our plans were.”

            “Laia, why don’t you go over to the admiral’s house now?” Mercè suggested.

            Laia nodded, and left the kitchen.

            “How bad is it?” she asked, once Laia was gone.

            He shrugged.  “I don’t think the medication’s working anymore,” he said.  Then he stood.  “I can’t just stand here.  I’ll comm. the Guardia from the air car.  There was a breeze blowing, when I was in the garden.  It made me think it was time to get the boat ready.  It might have given Jean-Luc the same idea.”

            “I’ll drive into town, then,” Mercè said, “but please.  Call the Guardia.  You don’t have him chipped?”

            Will said, “He was my commanding officer.  How could I treat him like a pet?”

            “It’s not the same thing, Guillem,” Mercè responded, “and you know it.”

            He shook his head, but said quietly, “I’ll talk to Rose.”

            Rose, he thought, would know what to do.  Of their three children, she was the one who always seemed to know what to do.

 

 

            He called the local Guardia office, and spoke to the duty sergeant.  Everyone knew who Jean-Luc was, it seemed, and everyone apparently also knew that he was suffering from an illness which had affected his memory.  Piloting the air car, he made the call to the Barcelona office of Starfleet.  It wouldn’t do, he thought, if he couldn’t find Jean-Luc right away, for Starfleet to be the last to know, rather than the first.  The young lieutenant he’d spoken to was nonplussed, and had no idea what to do with the information.  He left a message for the officer in charge, someone he occasionally met while at the university, and took the turn down to Pere’s marina. 

            Now that he thought about it, it was the most likely place for Jean-Luc to be; Jean-Luc had bought the old ketch himself, and they’d restored it together, with Jean-Luc showing him how.  He’d helped Dmitri and his parents all those many years ago with their boat, but there was a huge difference between a tribal fishing boat and the replicated antique sailing ketch Jean-Luc had bought.  Perhaps one of the locals had seen him walking along the side of the road and had given him a lift.  It was wrong of Pere not to have called him, but he would deal with that after he knew Jean-Luc was safe.

            He’d convinced himself that he’d find Jean-Luc in the boatshed, running his hands over the wooden hull, using the sandpaper carefully, humming tunelessly to himself.  Instead he found one of Pere’s men working on a fishing trawler, with Pere not around, and the marina busy but empty of Jean-Luc.

            He could carry on basic conversations in Catalan, but he was too frazzled to try to translate what he wanted to say; for some stupid reason, Klingon kept coming up instead.

            “Where’s Pere?” he asked the guy on the trawler; he couldn’t remember his name.  He didn’t care what his name was.  Using his command voice he said, “Have you seen Captain Picard?”

            The man on the trawler said, “Senyor,” and stood up, comically, almost at attention.  “Admiral Riker.  Pere went to the store.  He should be back soon.”

            “Will you comm. him?” he asked.  He realised he was standing at parade rest; it was no wonder the man had responded the way he did.  “The captain isn’t here?” he said, even though, again, he knew the answer already to this question.  Perhaps Pere had taken Jean-Luc to get supplies.  There was a supplier in town who could get almost anything, including tools which weren’t replicated.

            “No, Admiral, the captain isn’t here,” the man answered.  His name was Cintet; he remembered that now.  “Let me wipe my hands.  We’ll go to the office,” he said.

            “Thank you.”

            Will waited while the man went below, and then followed him mutely into Pere’s office.

            “On my way back now,” Pere said in Catalan, answering the comm.

            “Admiral Riker is here, looking for Captain Picard,” Cintet said.

            “Is he listening in?” Pere asked.

            “Yes,” Will said.  “He’s gone from the house.  I’ve let the Guardia know.  I was hoping he was here, working on the boat.”

            “He did comm. me yesterday,” Pere said in Standard.  “He talked about getting the boat ready.”

            “But you haven’t seen him,” Will said.

            “No, my friend,” Pere replied, and Will could hear the worry in his voice.  “I haven’t seen him, but I will keep my eyes open.  And I’ll let the others know.”  He paused, and then he said, “At the other docks –“

            “I know.  He could have forgotten which marina the boat was at,” Will said.  “Thank you, Pere.  And you didn’t see him in town?”

            “No, but I only went to two places,” Pere explained. 

            Pere disconnected, and Cintet offered, “I’ll make sure everyone knows here.”

            “Thanks,” he repeated.  “You don’t mind if I check the shed anyway?”

            “No, sir,” Cintet said.  “You do what you need to do.”

            Will walked out of the office and headed toward the shed they leased.  It was entirely possible that no one had seen Jean-Luc enter the shed; everyone was busy with their own affairs.  He noted with relief that the door was unlocked; he opened the door, calling, “Jean-Luc?”  He didn’t seem him at first; he was on the other side of the boat, on the floor.

            “Will?  Is that you?”

            Will wasn’t a believer in supernatural beings, except those that he’d met personally, such as Q, but he muttered “Thank God” under his breath and practically teleported himself to the far side of the boat.  He took in Jean-Luc’s form quickly, looking for blood or obvious injury; breathing deeply when he saw there was none.  He crouched down next to the man he’d loved for almost forty years and said,

            “Just what the fuck are you doing?”  He’d been thinking he’d go for calm and tenderness; what came out was rage.

            Jean-Luc flinched, and Will immediately felt like crying.  He’d never – even when he’d been so sick that he’d tried to kill his therapist – ever threatened Jean-Luc in any way.

            “Don’t be angry, Will,” Jean-Luc said.  “I’m all right.”

            He took a deep breath.  How could he have frightened Jean-Luc?  “Why are you on the floor?” he asked, forcing himself to speak quietly.

            Jean-Luc shrugged.  “I don’t remember,” he said.  “I – I don’t know how I got here, Will.”

            Will saw that he was still afraid.  He said, “I’m not angry with you – I promise you I’m not.”  He sat down beside him.  “Will you let me hold you?”

            “Please,” Jean-Luc said, and then, “I don’t want you to be angry, Will.”

            I’m never angry, Will thought, but he said, “Come here, then,” and took Jean-Luc in his arms.  When, he thought, had he gotten so small and frail?  “I’m sorry I scared you,” he said.  “I was just so worried when I didn’t know where you were.”

            “I don’t know how I got here,” Jean-Luc said.  “It was as if I were sleepwalking.  I woke up and I was on the floor.  I don’t believe I’m hurt.”

            “I’m calling the doctor just in case,” Will said.  “And I have to call everyone to let them know I found you.”

            “ _Mon Dieu_ ,” Jean-Luc said.  “You mean you called out the troops?”

            “You are one hundred and two years old,” Will said.  “If you think I wasn’t going to call everyone and their brother to find you….”  He was quiet and then he kissed Jean-Luc’s head.  “I thought I’d lost you,” he said.  “What could I tell the kids if I lost you?”  He was weeping, holding Jean-Luc in his arms, sitting on the floor of the damned boatshed.

            “I’m sorry, Will,” Jean-Luc said into his shirt.  “I don’t know what happened.  One minute I’m myself and then the fog comes…and I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

            He wiped his eyes on his sleeve.  “It’s all right,” he said, and he was trying to convince himself as well.  “You have your check-up tomorrow, at the hospital, and Rose will be there.  We’ll figure it out, Jean-Luc, I promise you.”

            Jean-Luc said, “Rose is someone who can help me?  Should I know her?”

            For a moment Will didn’t say anything, because he didn’t know what to say.  He tightened his hold around the captain and breathed in.

            “Have you had a trigger, Will?” Jean-Luc asked, concerned. 

            Once he’d told the captain – when was it? he thought, and then he remembered that it hadn’t been the captain he’d told, it had been Locutus.  _If the captain is there_ , he’d said, _then he’ll know I’ve never lied to him_.

            “No,” Will said now.  “No triggers, Jean-Luc.  Come on, let’s get you home.”

           

           

           

           

           

           

           


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will speaks to Rose -- and Jean-Luc brings up the inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In A Million Sherds, Will reaches the point in his illness where his extreme weight loss and chronic dehydration has taken such a toll that his body simply begins to shut down. According to Dr Beverly Crusher, he had days, maybe a week, to live -- and he asked Jean-Luc to stop his treatment, so he could die with dignity. Hearkening back to the episode, "Ethics," Jean-Luc reluctantly agrees, because he believes in the individual right to determine one's time of death.

 

 

 

 

 

            It had been after thirteen hundred by the time he’d gotten Jean-Luc home, and cleaned up, and fed, and resting quietly.  The idea of just calling it a fucking day and going to bed too had been appealing, but he knew damned well that, despite his exhaustion, he wouldn’t be able to sleep; his mind was spinning.  Jean-Luc wasn’t hurt – a few scratches, that was all; easily taken care of, but he’d called the doctor anyway, and the doctor had showed up and given Jean-Luc a shot.  That had put the captain in a foul mood, and they’d both been relieved when he’d asked to go to bed.

            The second floor had a wraparound verandah and so that’s where he was, sitting just outside their bedroom, facing the sea.  They’d found an antique spyglass on a trip to London and installed it; there were a few fishing boats out, a few sailboats; a lovely schooner, which was clearly a replicated windjammer.  Probably for the tourists, but she did make a pretty picture, her sails filled with wind.  He’d brought his padd with him, as he was supposed to be working on a new arrangement for one of the local jazz bands, but he was just too busy with what-ifs to pay attention.

            He heard the ping of a communication, and he opened it up.

            “Dad,” Rose said.  She was wearing a lab coat over her uniform and her hair was, as always, in disarray.

            “Rose,” he answered.  “Where are you?”

            “Still in Paris,” she said.  “What’s wrong?”

            Had he called her already?  He was beginning to think Jean-Luc’s illness was contagious.  “Papi,” he said, using her childhood nickname for Jean-Luc, “has had a bad day, that’s all.”

            “What kind of a bad day?”

            “Are you not going to be able to make it for tomorrow, Rose?” he asked, and he couldn’t keep the worry out of his voice. “Because I think I need you.  Here.”

            “You think you need me, or you need me?” Rose asked.

            She was always too clever for words, he thought.  She must have gotten that from Jean-Luc. 

            “Dad?”

            He said, “We need you here, Rosie.”

            “The appointment with the neurologist is at 0900 hours?” she asked.  “And what time is the scan?”

            “Eleven hundred,” he said.

            “You have a good doctor,” Rose said.

            “I lost him,” Will said.

            “What?”

            “He had an upset in the garden early this morning,” he explained.  “Somehow he’d remembered when I’d taken a shuttle and he thought that had happened again.  I got him settled in his study and went outside for a few minutes.  When I came back in, he was gone.”

            Rose was silent.  Then she said, “How far did he get?”

            “He was in the boatshed,” Will answered.  “He didn’t know how he got there, and no one – not Pere or his workers – had seen him arrive.  He recognised me, but he was disoriented and confused.  And –“ Will stopped.  This was his daughter.  What right did he have to burden her with problems that were not her own?

            “And what, Daddy?” she said. 

            He backtracked.  “And – it’s just hard, that’s all,” he said.  “Harder than I expected.”

            “You’ve been Admiral of the Fleet,” Rose said, sensibly.  “You can do anything, I would think.”

            “Well, I can’t do this!” he snapped.  She opened her mouth to say something, and he said, in his command voice, “Don’t you dare tell me to breathe.”

            “Sir,” she responded, and then she gave him a cheeky grin.

            Well, it was his cheeky grin, wasn’t it, so there wasn’t much he could say.  “Will you be there, Rose?” he asked.

            “Yes, Dad,” she said, “of course I will.  I’ll meet you in the lobby at about half an hour before, at 0830, okay?”

            He sighed.  “And you’re staying the weekend, aren’t you, Rosie?”

            It was her turn to sigh.  “Where is Papi now?” she asked.

            He glanced behind him, and was relieved that he could see Jean-Luc was still asleep, still in their bed.  “He’s asleep,” he said.  “He was worn out.”

            “You can ask for help, you know,” Rose said, and it was not her “daughter” voice she was using, but her professional one.  “In fact, that is something we should be discussing with the doctor tomorrow.  And with Starfleet.  Have you made an appointment with them?”

            “Why would I need to make an appointment with that idiot here?” Will said.  “I spoke to one of his junior officers, earlier, when Jean-Luc was missing.  He didn’t know who I was, and he definitely didn’t know Jean-Luc.”

            “Dad,” Rose said, and he could hear the frustration in her voice, “did you resign and not tell us?”

            By “us,” he assumed she meant the three of them – Sascha, and Jean-Guy, and herself.  “No,” he answered, with some dignity.  “I have not resigned.”

            “Then you outrank the idiot in Barcelona,” Rose said, “and you should act as if you do.”

            “Rose –“ he began, and she said, “Really, I’ve got to go.  I’ll see you in the morning, and then let’s do something fun for lunch, okay?”

            “Your father will be too exhausted for lunch,” he said, but she was already gone.

            When, he thought, as he shut off his padd, had he become such an old nag?

 

 

            When Jean-Luc woke, he was feeling better, more himself.  Will had been sitting in the old armchair they’d salvaged from the D, not really sleeping, but certainly not reading, either.  He’d rebooted the padd once and seen the amount of mail from Starfleet in his queue, and had promptly shut the padd back down.  Let the Federation live without him, for once.  There were other, younger men and women out there; let them handle it.

            “Will?” Jean-Luc said, sitting up.

            He opened his eyes.  “Yeah?”

            “Are you still upset?”

            That, he thought, was the understatement of the year.  “No,” he said.  “I’m over it.”

            “You always were a terrible liar, you know,” Jean-Luc said mildly, and stood up.  “I’m going to clean myself up,” he announced, “and then we are going to the kitchen, where you will fix me a cup of tea, if you don’t mind, and tell me what Rose said.”

            “How the hell do you know that I’ve spoken to Rose?” he demanded.  “You were asleep, and I was outside.”

            “Because,” Jean-Luc said, “you always speak to Rose when you’re angry with me.”  He walked into the head and shut the door.

            Maybe he _was_ the one with the temper, after all, because he felt like throwing his padd at Jean-Luc when he came back out.  Then he remembered he’d had a reputation, once, for throwing things, and resolved not to be so hard on Sascha anymore.

            “I’m not angry,” he said to the closed door.

            “No, of course not,” Jean-Luc responded.

            Will heard the toilet flush, and then the water running.  The door opened, and Jean-Luc said, folding and hanging up the hand towel, “Mad and cranky,” he recited, “because it’s all so stupid, and why does everything have to be this difficult?”

            Will opened his mouth to deny everything, and found it was promptly closed by Jean-Luc’s kiss.  When the kiss was over, he was breathing hard, and Jean-Luc gave him that rarified smile – the brilliant one, where his eyes crinkled up – and took his hand.

            “Don’t be cranky, Mr Riker,” Jean-Luc said.  “You can fix me a cup of tea from the replicator, if it will make you feel better, and have yourself a _cafè amb llet_ , and you can tell me what Rose told you to do.”

            They walked downstairs together, holding hands, and Will said, “Are you accusing me of giving you tea from the replicator because I’m mad at you?”

            Jean-Luc’s shoulders shook, briefly, and Will resisted the urge to hit him.

            “No, Will,” Jean-Luc answered patiently, “I’m giving you permission to give me tea from the replicator, _because_ you are mad at me.”

            Well, that was just simply too much, and he found himself laughing helplessly for the second time.  Jean-Luc sat down at the kitchen table, and Will felt himself tempted to use the replicator, just to prove a point.  Instead, he put fresh water in the kettle, and set it on the stove, and messed about the kitchen until everything was done and they were seated together, him with his coffee and Jean-Luc with his damned tea.

            “I hate to tell you this, Captain Picard,” Will said, “but you are an asshole.  In fact,” he continued, “I’m pretty sure you’ve always been an asshole, and I’m only just realising it now.”

            “Ha,” Jean-Luc said.  “That says more about you than it does about me.”

            “Asshole,” Will repeated.

            “Whatever helps you get through the day, William.”

            “Let’s go away for a few days, Jean-Luc,” Will said, after a while.  “I think perhaps we’re both a little bored.”

            “Boring, is more like it,” Jean-Luc said.  “Nothing more boring than a pair of washed-up ship’s captains, down on the pier, telling _remember when_ stories to any poor fool who will listen.”

            “So let’s go somewhere, then,” Will suggested.  “Pick a place we’ve never been.  Someplace you’d like to see.”

            Jean-Luc sighed, and then he reached out for Will’s hand; Will let him take it.  “We will only be taking my illness somewhere else, _mon cher_ ,” he said.  “I will still wake in the morning and not remember who you are.”

            “You knew who I was this morning,” Will protested.  “You just didn’t remember us.”

            “Isn’t it the same thing?” Jean-Luc asked.

            Will said, “At least you didn’t kick me out of the bed this morning,” and Jean-Luc laughed.

            “The look on your face,” he said, and then he added, “My poor boy.”

            “Rose will meet us in the hospital lobby tomorrow at 0830,” he said.  “Then she wants to do something ‘fun.’”

            “I shall be exhausted by then, I would imagine,” Jean-Luc replied.  “Having been poked and prodded, analysed and scanned.”

            “And cranky,” Will offered.  “Don’t forget how cranky you’ll be.”

            “You will be the one who will be cranky,” Jean-Luc said.  “I will be mad.”

            They sat silently for a while, Jean-Luc sipping his tea, Will thinking about drinking a liter or two of coffee.

            “What else did Rose say?” Jean-Luc asked.

            “What?”  He’d been drifting.

            “Will.  You spoke to Rose.  What else did she say?”

            “She’s busy,” he answered.

            Jean-Luc made an impatient noise.  “No doubt,” he said.

            “She’s spending the weekend.”

            “William.  What else did she say?”

            “We should talk to the doctor about getting help,” Will said.

            “Ah,” Jean-Luc said.  “We’ve reached the stage where I need a minder.”

            “What else am I supposed to do?” Will asked, and it was harder, this time, to keep the anger from his voice.  “If I can’t leave you alone for fifteen minutes, what else am I supposed to do?”

            “I don’t know,” Jean-Luc said, and he was using his old neutral tone of voice.  “Perhaps we have reached the stage of discussing other more permanent options.”

            Will stood up.  “Of course we have,” he said, his voice low.  “You still have a quality of life – _we_ still have a quality of life – but because you feel put-upon, let’s talk about ending it all.  Fuck you, Jean-Luc.”

            He walked outside, letting the door bang behind him.  It had grown warm, and there were clouds building up over the mountains.  The situation, he thought, was not analogous to when he’d been ill, and had asked Jean-Luc the same.  He’d been days away from dying, then, and it had taken an active decision on his part to keep trying to survive – it simply would have been far easier, then, to have given in to the inevitable.

            But realistically, what did Jean-Luc have to look forward to?  More of this, where he was in and out of what he called the fog; where he could no longer be trusted to be by himself (and Will still acutely remembered how that had felt, but he’d been the one to need a minder, not Jean-Luc) even for a few minutes.  And after that?  For Jean-Luc, it must be easy to see it all as one grievous indignity after another – total loss of identity, incontinence, drooling, no control of bodily functions – he, who had made his career out of his innate sense of dignity, and his ability to confer that sense of dignity on those around him.

            The Klingons, he thought, had always been right.  Far better to die with honour on the bridge of one’s ship.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean-Luc and Will argue, and then make up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In A Million Sherds, Will Riker, in a dissociative state brought about by a flashback, broke the mirror in his head and sliced open both arms and his throat. It was Jean-Luc who found him, alerted to the situation by Guinan.

 

 

 

 

            He heard the door open, but he didn’t turn around.  He wouldn’t apologise, and he wouldn’t accept an apology either.  It was too soon – way too soon – to discuss what Jean-Luc wanted to discuss. 

            Jean-Luc stood beside him, and he didn’t say anything.

            “I won’t apologise,” Will said.

            “I shan’t ask you to,” Jean-Luc replied.

            “It’s not the same,” Will said.  He wouldn’t look at the man standing beside him.

            “Isn’t it?” Jean-Luc asked.  “At least I am bringing the subject up for discussion.  You,” he said, “left me to find you on the deck in your quarters, covered in blood.”

            “It’s not the same.”

            “And how is that?”

            “We’d been together barely a week,” Will said.  “I didn’t have any idea how you felt about me.  In fact, I thought you were just feeling sorry for me, and trying to make me feel better.”

            “Is that so?”

            “Yes, it’s so,” Will answered.  “You know it’s so.”  He could feel that he was shaking, and he stopped himself.  “And,” he continued, “I was in the middle of a dissociative state.  I barely had any knowledge at all of what I was doing.”

            “You had enough knowledge,” Jean-Luc remarked, “to know exactly how to break the mirror, and to make the cuts the correct way, to maximise blood loss.”

            “There wasn’t exactly the opportunity to walk out into the snow, was there?” he said bitterly.

            “If we wait to have this conversation,” Jean-Luc said quietly, “I will not be able to participate in it at all.  And I’ll be damned if I’ll let you – or our children – make this decision for me.”  He paused, and then he said, “It’s my decision, Will.  Not yours, and not Rose’s.  Mine.”

            “You sound like a two-year-old,” Will retorted.  “Mine.  My decision.  My toys.  My ship.  Thirty-five years doesn’t mean anything at all to you, does it?”

            “Come inside, Will,” Jean-Luc said.  “Please.”  Jean-Luc placed his arms around Will’s waist, and pulled him in.  “I’m sharing this – this process with you, as hard as it is for both of us.  Surely that must mean something to you.”

            “As opposed to you doing what, Jean-Luc?  What would not sharing entail?”  He loosed Jean-Luc’s hands and turned around to face him, still holding them in his own. 

            “As opposed to not watching you suffer,” he answered quietly.  “Don’t you think I know what it does to you every time I don’t know who you are?  Every time I ask you who Rose is?”

            “So killing yourself will be a magnanimous act for me?” Will asked.

            Jean-Luc sighed.  “William,” he said.  “I’m not talking about killing myself.  I don’t want to do anything except have a discussion about what this will look like, in the future.  In six months, if you like.  In a year.  How far will I have deteriorated?  How much do we both endure, with me in this house not knowing who or what I am, and you trapped here taking care of me?  When you should be,” Jean-Luc said, “back on your own damned ship in space.  Doing what you’re supposed to be doing.  Which is not being a nursemaid to me.”

            “I thought,” Will said, “I was your husband.”

            “You are being deliberately obtuse,” Jean-Luc said.

            “And you are being deliberately cruel,” Will countered, and he turned away.

            “Oh, Will,” Jean-Luc said.  “Let’s not quarrel anymore.  I won’t say anymore about it, I promise.”

            Will thought, I don’t know how to fix this, and then, I used to be able to fix anything.  “All right,” he said.

 

 

            Later, after they’d had a light supper of grilled shrimps and _ensalata catalana_ ; after Mercè had shown up for a coffee and a grappa just to check on them, Jean-Luc suggested they sit on the verandah outside their bedroom and watch the day sailors come in and the sun go down.

            “Rose will meet us at the hospital tomorrow?” he asked.

            “Yes,” Will said.  He had his padd and was answering his mail.

            “You asked me a question this morning, and I was supposed to answer it,” Jean-Luc said.  “And I forgot.  I’m sorry, Will.”

            “You didn’t have to answer until tomorrow,” Will reminded him.

            “Ah,” Jean-Luc said.  “But I expect I will forget by morning, anyway.”

            “Probably,” Will said.  “Just don’t forget that we share a bed.  The couch is way too small for me.”

            “There are three other bedrooms in this house,” Jean-Luc said.  “No one said you had to sleep on the sofa.”

            Will resisted the urge to glance back at the sofa in question.  “I refuse to leave this room,” he said.

            “You might get more sleep if you did,” Jean-Luc suggested, his face turned away.

            “I’ve never needed much sleep,” Will answered.

            “That is certainly true.”  Jean-Luc glanced at Will’s padd.  “Anything of importance?”

            Will laughed.  “You’re joking, right?” he said.  “The whole damned system’s fallen apart.  No one seems to know what they’re doing anymore.”

            “Did they ever?”

            “I suppose not.”

            They sat in silence.  The wind was still off the sea; the clouds that had formed over the mountains had dissipated; the colours of the sunset purple and hazy.

            “Hot tomorrow,” Will said.  “No wind, to speak of.”

            “It’s too early for the sirocco,” Jean-Luc said.

            “Weather shield would take care of it, anyway,” Will agreed.

            “I used to like it, when I was a child,” Jean-Luc commented.  “I’m not sure, now, why.  Certainly no one else did.”

            “Perhaps because it reminded you of an earlier time.”  Will put his padd down on the table.  “When the sirocco would drive men mad, and blow ships off course.  When the weather meant something.  Like a howling gale off the Pacific, bringing ice and the promise of days with no power, hoping your supply of wood for the stove would hold out.”

            “Perhaps so.”  Jean-Luc yawned, and shifted in his chair.  “Used to be I wouldn’t sleep until the start of gamma shift, maybe.  Sometimes not even then.”

            “And you were up ninety minutes before alpha, every morning.”  Will smiled, remembering.

            “Those were enjoyable, though, those ninety minutes,” Jean-Luc said, as he gazed at Will.

            Thirty-five years later, Will still blushed, and Jean-Luc laughed, softly.  “I have a better idea, _mon cher_ ,” Jean-Luc said.

            “Better than what?”

            “You asked me if I would still share my future with you,” Jean-Luc said.  He didn’t add “such as it is;” they both knew it hung there, in the air, better to be left unsaid.

            “I did,” Will agreed.

            “Cochrane Day is almost here,” Jean-Luc said.  “Are we required viewing, at some celebration, somewhere?”

            “There’s an invitation to San Francisco,” Will admitted.  “The _Enterprise_ will be home.”

            “Will she?”

            “Yes,” Will said, “but she’s not our Enterprise.”

            “No,” Jean-Luc answered.  “Not the D or E.”

            “There’s an invitation to Paris as well,” Will said. 

            “We could stay with Rose.”

            “We could.”  Will stretched.  “I was under the impression that the kids wanted to come here, though.”

            “ _Mon Dieu_ , Guy,” Jean-Luc said, horrified, “not a party.  I’m not up to a fucking party.”

            Will laughed.  “No Captain Picard Day?”

            “I got you back for that one,” Jean-Luc said.

            “You did,” Will acknowledged.  “What were you going to say, Jean-Luc?”

            “You wanted to go away,” Jean-Luc reminded him, “for a few days.”

            “Yes,” Will said.

            “Somewhere with good music, I suppose.”

            “There’s good music everywhere, Jean-Luc.  You only have to find it.”

            “True.”  Jean-Luc was quiet, and then he took Will’s hand.  “Would you say yes to me again, if I asked you?”

            Will felt himself stop breathing.

            “Breathe, Will,” Jean-Luc said gently.

            “If you asked me what, Jean-Luc?”  He knew he was being disingenuous.

            “Will you marry me, Guillaume?” Jean-Luc asked.  “Even with all this?  Knowing what is coming?”

            “I’m already married to you,” Will said.

            “I’m asking you to marry me again,” Jean-Luc said.  “Pick a place you’d like to go.  And then retake our vows.  Just the two of us.  No kids, no party.”

            “We’d need a witness,” Will said. 

            “Anyone off the street could be a witness.”

            “You promised me flowers and dancing, once.”

            Jean-Luc smiled.  “You had the flowers and dancing, I seem to recall.”

            Will grinned.  “I did, didn’t I?” he said.  “You surprised me; I hadn’t expected it.”  He looked down at his hand, at the ring he still wore.  “Yes,” he said.  “You could ask me every day, Jean-Luc, and the answer will always be: Yes.”

            “Even when you find me on the deck of the boatshed?” Jean-Luc asked.  “Even when we have to discuss end-of-life care?”

            “Yes,” Will repeated.  He stood up, and offered his hand to Jean-Luc.  “Even.  In spite of.  Doesn’t matter.  We’ll put another bed in here, and move the couch.”

            Jean-Luc rose as well, and took Will’s hand.  “ _Je t’aime, mon_ Guy,” he said.

            “ _Je sais_ ,” Will said.  “ _Je t’aime aussi_ , Jeannot.”

            Will led Jean-Luc inside, and closed the French doors, and then wrapped Jean-Luc in his arms.

            “The children,” he said, “will be upset.”

            “Too bad,” Jean-Luc answered.  “Come to bed?”

            “Twice in one day?” Will said, amused.  “However did I get so lucky?”

            “And you call me an asshole,” Jean-Luc replied.  “Yes or no, Mr Riker?”

            “Oh, yes,” Will said.  “Definitely yes, Mr Picard.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose convinces her boyfriend to leave for Barcelona early, and has a troubling conversation with the Admiral.

 

 

 

 

 

            It had been an exhausting day, although honestly it had been no busier than usual, what with lectures and labs and the monogram she was writing; but the truth was that it had been exhausting because she had comm’d her father and it was his “Well, I can’t do this!” which had looped around in her mind all day.  It was, she thought, as close as he’d ever, in all the years she could remember, come to complaining.  It wasn’t like him.  And it worried her. 

            So she was glad to leave the research centre, especially as she was meeting Grae for supper at the little Café de Féliu where they often met, but she was still more pensive than usual when she sat down at their usual table.

            She kissed Grae and sat, and took a sip of the wine he’d already poured for her.

            “Did you order already?” she asked.

            He smiled and said, “I would never presume to order for you, Dr Riker-Picard.”

            “I order the same meal every time,” she told him, laughing.

            “The truth is, Rose,” he answered, “they saw me come in and started cooking our meal right away.”

            “Well, it’s the only place in Paris where you can get paella,” Rose said, “even if it isn’t as good as my father’s.”

            The waiter, whose name was Quimet because he was from Girona, arrived at their table with an appetizer of pickled eggplants and calamari, and, as Grae had predicted, explained that the paella would be ready in a few minutes.

            She sipped her wine and picked at her food, even as she could feel Grae watching her.

            “Not hungry?” he asked, finally.

            She shrugged.  “It isn’t that I’m not hungry,” she answered slowly.  “It’s just that I feel as if I shouldn’t be here – and,” she added, “I don’t mean that I shouldn’t be here with you.  It isn’t about us.”

            “You are taking the shuttle to Barcelona in the morning?” Grae’s eyes, when he looked at her, were dark and serious.

            “In the morning, yes,” she answered.

            “And you’re thinking you should have left today, after work?”  He reached for her hand, and she let him take it.  “What changed?”

            “I spoke to the Admiral this afternoon,” she answered.  She always called him the Admiral, even to Grae; he was Admiral of the Fleet.  To call him “Dad” just didn’t seem appropriate, somehow.

            “Rose,” Grae said.  “You can tell me, you know.  I’m not Starfleet.”

            Of course he wasn’t Starfleet.  She’d met him on a civilian-led research project in which Starfleet had an interest.  He was fascinated by Starfleet, and by her life in Starfleet, both as an adult and as a child, but he would not have lasted one day in the ‘Fleet, and Rose found herself strangely comforted by that.

            “My father – the Ambassador,” she clarified.  “He somehow managed to vanish, and the Admiral couldn’t find him.  He – the Admiral -- sounded overwhelmed.  I don’t think I’ve ever heard him sound that way before.”

            “Is he all right?  The Ambassador, I mean.”

            “Yes,” Rose answered.  “He was found, eventually, although how he got to the boat all by himself at his age….The Admiral was upset, but really upset, Grae.  Not in his usual way.  Oh, I don’t know how to explain it.”

            Grae said, “Your father has a larger than life personality, but his being upset today was not part of that.”

            Rose glanced at him in surprise.  “That’s exactly it,” she said.  “He blustered, a lot, especially when we were children.  He’s quick to laugh, and he’s even quick, in a way, to cry.  But this was different.  He sounded – frightened.  I’ve never heard him frightened, Graeme.  Never, not in all our years in deep space.”

            “There is,” Grae said gently, “one last shuttle tonight.  Shall we go?”

            “You’ve never met my fathers,” Rose said.

            “No,” he agreed, “but I was going to meet them at the anniversary party.  If you’re this worried, Rose, you shouldn’t be alone.”  He paused and then he said, “Have you spoken to your brothers?”

            Rose shook her head.  She let go of Grae’s hand as Quimet appeared with the paella, and she was quiet as the waiter went about plating their meal.

            “I thought,” she answered, “that I would wait until I’d spoken to Dr Montalvo, before I called Sascha and Jean-Guy.”

            “Eat, Rose,” Grae said.  “Even if we take the shuttle tonight, you have time to eat.”

            “Stop bossing me,” Rose responded, but she was smiling.

            They ate quietly, and Grae poured her another half glass of wine.  “Sascha is in San Francisco, isn’t he?” Grae asked.

            “Yes.  Jean-Guy is at school at Oxford.”

            “He’s the musician, right?”

            “Right.” Rose smiled.  “Sascha is at the Academy, teaching for a semester.”

            “The Admiral is a musician, isn’t he?” Grae asked.  “I think I remember you telling me that.”

            “He is.  A jazz musician.  He has a studio at the University.  He’s been working on a major piece, but you had better not tell anyone that,” she said.  “He doesn’t know that I know.”

            “Okay,” Grae agreed.  “Why would that be a big deal?”

            Rose rolled her eyes.  “He doesn’t want anyone to know how seriously he takes his music,” she answered.  “Or something like that.  He never has, apparently.  And then there was always this business of not wanting to outshine the Ambassador in any way.”

            “Will it upset them if we show up on their doorstep ahead of time?” Grae asked, as they were leaving the café.

            “There’s a place for Starfleet personnel to stay in the city,” Rose said as she climbed into the air taxi.  “You can stay there, if you’re with me.”

            He grinned, and kissed her.  “I am with you,” he said.

            “Can you pack in five minutes? We won’t have much time.”

            “Of course,” he answered.  “I am the king of last minute conferences, you know that.”

            “ _Bien_ ,” Rose said.  “Will you wait for us while we get our bags?  We need to get the Starfleet shuttle terminal.”

            The driver nodded.  “ _Oui, mademoiselle_ ,” he answered, surprisingly, in French.  “ _Vous ětes francaise_?” he asked.

            “ _Oui_ ,” she replied.  “ _Mon père est français, né en LaBarre_.”

            “ _C’est bon_ ,” he replied.

            “Her father is Ambassador Picard,” Grae said, smiling.

 

 

            She comm’d the Admiral when they arrived in Barcelona, and was just a little bit abashed to find that she’d wakened him.

            “Rose,” he said sleepily.  “What is it?”

            “I’m sorry, Dad,” she said.  “I didn’t think you’d be asleep this early.  Is Papi okay?”

            “He’s asleep,” the Admiral said, tersely, “as was I.  Yes.  Tired, a little bruised, but okay.”

            “I just wanted to let you know that we came down early,” she told him.  She was trying not to grin, because his hair was sticking straight up, and he’d put his glasses on, and he was sitting on the edge of the bed in his pyjamas.  “So I’m already in Barcelona, at Starfleet housing, and I will meet you in the lobby of Starfleet Medical at 0830.”

            He rubbed his head, which made his hair stick up even more.  “Who’s we?”

            “Grae,” she answered.  “Graeme.”

            “He came with you?”

            “Yes,” Rose said.  “I’d like you to meet him.”

            Her father was silent.  “I can hardly see how this is an appropriate time, Rose,” he said. 

            “The whole point of me staying the weekend was to talk about the anniversary,” Rose replied.  “So I brought Grae, to help with the planning.”

            He shrugged.  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, finally.  “I will see you in the morning.”

            “Dad?”  She hesitated.

            “What?  I don’t want to wake Papi.”  She could hear the irritation in his voice.

            “Are you okay?  I’m worried about you.”

            He sighed.  “I’m fine, Rose,” he answered.  “Good night.”

            “ _Bon nuit_ , Daddy,” Rose said.  She looked at Grae.  “Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea,” she said.

            “What wasn’t?” Grae asked.  He pulled her to him, and brushed her errant curls off of her forehead before kissing her, lightly, on her cheek.  “Bringing me?”

            “No,” Rose said, snuggling into him.  “Inviting half of fucking Starfleet to their wedding anniversary.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Jean-Luc see Dr Montalvo, and come to an understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Riker's illness, referred to in this chapter, is Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, as it developed from severe abuse as a child. In A Million Sherds, Will suffers from the severe form of this illness because of his sociopathic father's treatment of him.

           

6. 

 

 

 

            “Will.”

            “I’m asleep,” he said, pulling the quilt up.  He could feel Jean-Luc sliding his arm underneath him and then pulling him close.

            “Why are you so far away?” Jean-Luc said in his ear.  “Come here, you.”

            For a moment it felt as if he were back on the _Enterprise_ , Jean-Luc’s arms around him, spooning him, kissing his ear and the back of his neck.  “No problem with your memory this morning,” he murmured, deciding simply to enjoy the attention.

            “I thought,” Jean-Luc said, his breath warm on the back of Will’s neck, “that if there were this handsome fellow in my bed, I should just take advantage of it.”

            “Whether you knew him or not,” Will replied, and it felt so good to laugh in the morning.

            “Either way, it’s a winning scenario for me,” Jean-Luc agreed.

 

 

            Starfleet sent an air car with a driver, an ensign who looked so young it was hard to believe he’d graduated from grammar school, let alone the Academy.  Because they were going to Starfleet Medical, Will was in his admiral’s uniform, and the ensign stood at attention so smartly as he opened the door for them that Will thought the boy’s spine might snap.

            “Were we ever that young?” Jean-Luc muttered as he slid, somewhat awkwardly, into the air car.

            “I’m still that young,” Will answered, smirking, which Jean-Luc chose to ignore.

            “Sir,” the ensign said, “I am to escort you and Ambassador Picard to Dr Montalvo’s office.”

            Will didn’t answer, and Jean-Luc said, “There is nothing wrong with Admiral Riker’s memory, Ensign.  We can certainly find our way to Montalvo’s office without your help.  We have been there often enough.”

            “Aye, sir,” the ensign said. 

            There was an uncomfortable silence.  “What’s your name, son?” Will asked, finally, as they entered the city.

            “Locarno, sir.”

            “How’d you end up here?”  Will glanced at Jean-Luc.

            “Languages, I guess, sir,” Locarno said.  “Communications at the Academy.  Xenolinguistics.”

            “Admiral Riker is quite proficient in Klingon,” Jean-Luc remarked.  “And Betazoid.”

            “Just not Catalan,” Will said, laughing as Jean-Luc rolled his eyes.  “What I meant was, Ensign, how’d you end up as our detail?  Who’d you piss off?”

            “Piss off, sir?” Locarno skirted the Ramblas effectively, and headed towards the grounds of L’Hospital de Sant Pau, where Starfleet Medical had been built.

            “Don’t be disingenuous,” Will said.  “Driving two old men to the doctor and then bringing us to his office.  Whose bright idea was that?”

            “Will,” Jean-Luc said, placing his hand on Will’s knee.  “It’s not the boy’s fault.”

            “No,” Will agreed.  “Certainly it isn’t -- that this office is a day late and a dollar short.”

            Locarno pulled the air car into VIP parking, receiving the salute of the guards and put the Admiral’s flag on the windscreen as he parked.

            “Sir,” Locarno said, opening the door for Jean-Luc first, and then for Will.  “I asked to, sir.  It’s an honour.  Sirs.”

            Will grinned.  “That changes everything, then, doesn’t it, Ambassador Picard?” he said.  “Lay on, Macduff.”

            “I don’t think, Admiral Riker,” Locarno said, quietly, as they walked to the main entrance, “it is appropriate for me to fight you. Sir.”

            Will chuffed in surprise, and Jean-Luc said, “Finally, Mr Riker.  Someone who understands Shakespeare.  Admiral Riker has been misinterpreting that particular quotation, Mr Locarno, for almost forty years.”

            “Surely not forty, Mr Picard,” Will objected.

            “Close enough,” Jean-Luc retorted. 

            “You’ve done it now, Ensign,” Will said, his tone conversational, as they entered the lobby of Starfleet Medical and watched almost everyone straighten his spine, “He is sure to give you the list.  Every insult to Shakespeare, and Ovid, and Sophocles, and Aristophanes, and any other “es” that I have perpetrated in forty years.”

            “There is no list,” Jean-Luc said, shortly, “as you well know.”

            “Cicero, and Caesar, and Dante, and Aeschylus, and Marlowe –“

            “William.”

            They stopped at the fountain, where a certain young woman in science blues was giving them a familiar grin; the ensign, Locarno, glancing from Will to Rose and then hiding his own.

            “Yes?”

            “Shut up,” Jean-Luc said, and Rose burst into a peal of laughter as she wrapped herself around him.

            “I do regret I taught you that phrase, Jean-Luc,” Will said, enfolding Rose in a hug of his own.  “Hello, Rosie,” he said gently, bending to kiss her on the cheek.  “You look well.”  He gave a cheeky grin to the solemn-looking young man in civilian clothes waiting to be acknowledged.  “Love seems to be good for you.”

            Rose rolled her eyes at Grae, and said, “Graeme McKean.  My parents.  Ambassador Picard.  Admiral Riker.”

            Will extended his hand to the young man, and was pleased to note there was no pretense in his handshake.  Just firm and dry – no nerves, Will thought, and then he smiled – perhaps this was a fellow who could handle their Rose.  The young man took Jean-Luc’s hand and said, “Honoured to meet you, sir,” to Will, and then, surprisingly, “ _Je suis très heureux_ , Ambassador,” to Jean-Luc.

            “ _Je suis ainsi_ ,” Jean-Luc replied, and then he took Rose’s hand.  “You are looking well,” he added.  “Come to lecture me about wandering off, have you?”

            “ _Absolument_ ,” Rose said.  “For all those times you scolded me for disappearing on the ship.”

            “I’m afraid your scolding didn’t work,” Grae said, as they walked to the lift.  “She still has a tendency to simply vanish.”

            “She is,” Jean-Luc said, glancing sideways at Will, “her father’s daughter.”

            Will protested, “I haven’t disappeared in years.”

            Jean-Luc’s smile was warm.  “I suspect I’ve given you enough reasons not to,” he said.

            Will was easy-going.  “I suspect so,” he agreed.

            Rose rolled her eyes again, and said, _sotto voce_ , “We’re in _public_. _Please_.”

            The lift appeared, and they trouped in.  “Three,” Will said, and then, grinning broadly, he remarked to Jean-Luc, “For some reason, Jean-Luc, she still thinks sex is only for the young.”

            There was silence, Will noted with satisfaction, with Rose dying in the corner and the two young men trying not to laugh.

            “Then we must be getting younger every day, _mon cher_ ,” Jean-Luc answered mildly.

            “Well, you know what they say,” Will continued, the doors to the lift opening, “you’re only as young as you feel.”

            “And you always feel so good,” Jean-Luc said, his lip curled upwards just a bit. 

            He was always so much better at control than Will, because Will, in looking at Rose’s face, was trying not to explode with laughter.

            “Are they always like this?” Grae asked Rose; even though he too was trying not to laugh, he could certainly empathise with her embarrassment.

            “Yes,” Rose said, and she sounded so miserable that Will immediately felt bad.

            He put his arm around her, and said, “I’m sorry, Rosie.  We should be more dignified, I expect,” realising of course that at her age, and in uniform, walking with parents’ whose fame had always overshadowed her childhood; well, maybe teasing her in public was unfair.  Dignity was so important at that age, Will thought, remembering how uptight he had been as a lieutenant and then lieutenant commander on the _Potemkin_. He glanced at Jean-Luc, who, despite his illness, was still as sensitive as ever in assessing Will’s moods.

            “It was my fault,” he said now, to Rose.  “Sometimes it’s difficult to remember how fragile one is at your age.”

            Rose sighed.  “I’m _not_ fragile,” she muttered, but she was smiling, at least. 

            They’d reached Montalvo’s waiting room, and Will walked up to the petty officer to sign Jean-Luc in.

            “Picard, Jean-Luc,” Will said to the PO, “for Montalvo.”

            “Aye, sir,” the PO said.  “It shouldn’t be long.”

            “I would hope not,” Will said, and returned to sit beside Rose and Jean-Luc.

            “I suppose,” Will said thoughtfully, but then he saw the look in Jean-Luc’s eye and thought better of pursuing that particular thought, “we should decide where we’re taking you for lunch.”

            Rose glanced at him sceptically and then said, “There’s the _comida_ in the Gotico.”

            “You mean Albert’s place?” Will asked.  “Yes, he’d be glad to see you again, Rose.”

            “Doesn’t it depend on whether this young man is permitted to drive us to lunch?” Jean-Luc said.  “After all, his orders could be to take us straight home.”

            Locarno said, “My orders were to be at your disposal, sir.”

            “Why not Al Mar, Will?” Jean-Luc asked.  “We’ve not eaten there in a long time.”

            “Are you sure?” Will asked, his voice low.  “It’ll be busy.”

            “I feel fine,” Jean-Luc said, and there was just a hint of steel in his voice.

            Will assessed the situation, and then he smiled and said, “Of course.  It’s a celebration, after all.  We have Rosie home, and we get to meet Graeme.  Perhaps,” he added, glancing at Locarno, “Ensign Locarno could see if we can still get a reservation?”

            “Yes, sir,” Locarno said.  “I’ll be happy to, sir.”

            “Good,” Will said, and then he saw Lt Hamilton in the doorway. 

            “Ambassador Picard,” Hamilton said, glancing at his padd.  “How are you, sir?  Let’s take your vitals.”

            Will stood, making sure that Jean-Luc could take his hand if he needed to, but Jean-Luc showed no evidence at all of his injuries from the day before.

            “Rose,” Will said, “are you coming?”

            “Yes,” Rose said, her earlier embarrassment forgotten.  She was Dr Riker-Picard, now.

            “I’ll wait here,” Grae said quickly, “with Mr Locarno.”

            Will nodded.  He walked closely beside Jean-Luc, and said to Hamilton, “This is our daughter, Dr Rose Riker-Picard.  Rose, this is Dr Montalvo’s nurse, Lt Hamilton.  Rose will be accompanying us today, Lieutenant.”

            “Yes, sir,” Hamilton agreed.

            They followed him down the corridor, Will resting his hand lightly on Jean-Luc’s arm.

 

 

 

           

            He found himself sitting on the verandah outside their bedroom, a drink in his hand, scrolling through his mail but not really concentrating on much.  He was supposed to have gone to his studio, but he’d cancelled, and there were a few complaints about it from his students.  The day had been hot and still, as he’d predicted, and it looked as if it would be hot again tomorrow; the sky was opaque, the sea green.

            Rose and Graeme were in the garden still, with Jean-Luc.  He’d made a light supper, after their heavy lunch, of _pasta alle vongole_ , with a small salad of mixed greens, and they’d eaten outside.  Mercè and Pau and Laia had come over for coffee and drinks and dessert, and they’d been invited to their home for dinner tomorrow.  He didn’t know how Jean-Luc was holding up.  He’d managed as long as he could, and then he’d made some excuse about expecting a communication from Starfleet, and had disappeared, not to his office, but to their bedroom.

            Montalvo had agreed that it was time to get a “minder,” as Jean-Luc had so artlessly put it, and it turned out that Locarno had already been chosen by Commander Steen for the job.  Steen had sent Locarno to drive them to see if they could all get along, Will supposed, and it set his teeth on edge.  He’d always thought of himself as a man who was relatively easy to get along with.  His temper, which occasionally had flared when he was First on the _Enterprise D_ , had mellowed after his illness and its treatment, and while he was still hard on those beneath him, it was because he expected them to perform, and they generally did.  His crew on the _Titan_ had been just as close to him as he’d been with Jean-Luc on the _Enterprise_ , and he thought it was therefore a reasonable assumption that he was easy to get along with.

            He simply could not stomach Commander Steen.  The man was an asshole.  He was prickly, and just hovering above stupid, and he didn’t have an ounce of common sense.  Of all the stupid, underhanded things – that poor kid Locarno.

            Well, it was done, and it would only be worse for Locarno if he pulled strings to make it undone.  And Locarno seemed like a nice kid.  Jean-Luc seemed to like him, especially since he knew his Shakespeare.  Well, of course he knew his Shakespeare, Will thought, which was probably why Steen chose him.

            The scan hadn’t been good.  And they’d had the talk, the reason why Rose was with them.  Jean-Luc didn’t want extraordinary measures taken, to prolong his life.  He didn’t want Will to be “stuck,” as he put it, taking care of him, when Will had more important work to do.  Hospice was mentioned, and agreed upon.  It wouldn’t happen in six months; it wouldn’t even happen in a year.  But he’d hoped for ten years or maybe even fifteen.  He’d be lucky if he got five.

            He was going to be alone.

            And he was going to be alone for a long time.  While it was true his mother had died at a very young age – thirty-seven – it was because of a random deadly virus she’d picked up as the leader of an away team.  Auntie Tasya, his mother’s aunt, had lived until she was almost one hundred thirty; his mother’s family was long-lived.  Both of his father’s sisters were still alive and doing well.  He was only seventy-two.  He might live twenty or thirty years, without Jean-Luc.

            It had never occurred to him.  Because of his illness, he’d always thought he’d die first, even though Jean-Luc was thirty years older.  Not because he wanted to die, not anymore, but because there’d been so much damage done.

            It was stupid.  He should be in the garden with them, not up here, sulking, or whatever it was that he was doing.  Feeling sorry for himself.  Not feeling sorry for Jean-Luc, mind you, or for the kids, who would be losing their father, but for himself.

            “You used to go to the observation deck,” Jean-Luc said from the doorway.

            “It’s good to have Rose here,” he answered.  “I like Graeme.”

            “May I join you?  Or is this a party for one?”

            “A pity party, you mean?” Will asked, and then instantly regretted it.

            “Is that what this is?”  Jean-Luc placed his hand on Will’s shoulder, and then Will leaned his head against him.

            “Yes,” he said, his voice muffled by Jean-Luc’s sweater.

            “Oh, Will,” Jean-Luc said.  “We dealt with your illness.  We will deal with mine.”

            “Mine wasn’t terminal,” Will said.

            “And we didn’t know that at the time, did we?” Jean-Luc asked.  He bent down and kissed Will’s hair, and then took his seat beside him.  “What are you drinking?”

            “Vodka,” Will said.

            “I shall have to tell Mr da Costa,” Jean-Luc said, his lip turning slightly upward.

            “Don’t you dare,” Will returned.

            “Mister” da Costa was Will’s therapist, the one he saw for his yearly check-ups, when he went to San Francisco, his original psychiatrist, Dr McBride, having long since retired to Betazed.

            “You realise,” Will said, after a moment, “what Rosie has done, don’t you?”

            Jean-Luc sighed.  “Invited half of fucking Starfleet to our anniversary party?  Yes,” he said.

            Will had taken a sip of his drink, and subsequently spit it out, all over himself.  “I’ve been a bad influence on you, Captain Picard,” he said, laughing.

            “Indeed you have, Mr Riker,” Jean-Luc answered.  “We can slip away the day before.  They can have their party.  They’ll still have a good time.”

            “I thought officers in Starfleet didn’t sneak around,” Will said.

            “I am retired,” Jean-Luc replied.  “I can do whatever sneaking around I wish to do.”

            “Did she tell you when the boys were coming home?” he asked.

            “Sunday, I think,” Jean-Luc answered.

            “I liked your idea better,” Will said.

            “I did too.”

            “Are you cold?  Shall we go in now?”

            “Yes.”  Jean-Luc stood.  “We could still do what we planned, Will.  I don’t want to spoil Rose’s party.  But we could leave, after.”

            “Won’t you be too tired, after all the company?” He stood too, and stretched.

            “We could conceivably bring Mr Locarno with us,” Jean-Luc suggested.

            Will was quiet.  “You wouldn’t mind that?”

            “No,” Jean-Luc said thoughtfully.  “I think it would reduce the stress on you.  I think it might make things more manageable.”

            “I love you,” Will said.

            “I _am_ cold,” Jean-Luc told him.

            “Then let’s go in.”  Will wrapped his arm around Jean-Luc’s waist, and they walked inside.  “Shall I help you in the shower?”

            “Do you mind, Guy?  I’m quite tired, all of a sudden.”

            Will pulled Jean-Luc close, and kissed him, softly.  “Of course I don’t mind,” he answered.  “I’ll shower with you.  Then into bed, yes?”

            “Yes.  It’s been a very long day.”

            He helped Jean-Luc undress, and then washed him, gently, in the shower, taking care not to hurt his bruised skin.  He put Jean-Luc to bed, and then said, “I’ll say good night to Rosie and Graeme for you, all right?”

            Jean-Luc had already closed his eyes.  “Yes, that’s fine.”

            Will wrapped his robe around himself, and slipped his sandals on.  “Lights, twenty percent,” he said.

            When he got to the door, Jean-Luc said, “William.”

            “Yes?”

            “It’s time to tell them.”

            “Tell who what, Jean-Luc?”

            “The children,” Jean-Luc said.  “About our wedding.  About the Valentine’s Day ball.  Before I forget.  They don’t know about us, Will.  We should tell them.”

            Will was silent, considering.  “Of course they know about us,” he said.

            “Oh, they know about the Borg,” Jean-Luc agreed.  “They know about the _D_.  They know about Q, and about our adventures.  But they don’t know about _us_.  And they should.”  He paused, and then he said, “Rose is going to marry Graeme, Will.  So it’s time to tell them.”

            “She told you that, without me there?” Will was hurt.

            “No,” Jean-Luc said, exasperated.  “Of course she didn’t.  But it’s obvious,” he added.  “And – I don’t think I’m wrong about this – “

            “You don’t think you’re wrong about what?”

            “She’s pregnant,” Jean-Luc said.

            “What?”  Will shut the door.

            “I’m sure of it.”  Jean-Luc sat up.

            “We’re going to be grandparents?” Will grinned.  “But I’m still a kid.”

            “Ha,” Jean-Luc said. 

            “I’ll tell them goodnight, then,” Will said, turning back to the door.

            “Guy.”

            “There’s more?”  He didn’t want to sound irritated, but he was feeling perhaps a little overwhelmed.

            “She needs to know.”

            “Rose needs to know what?”  Jean-Luc’s tone had changed, and Will was afraid he knew where this was going.

            “Dr McBride said there was a genetic component,” Jean-Luc said.  “To your illness.  And to what your father was.”

            “I don’t think this is the time,” Will said.

            “It is precisely the time,” Jean-Luc replied.  “Whether she’s pregnant now, or later, she needs to know.  Sascha and Jean-Guy need to know.  And I want for us to talk about it, about what happened.  About your illness.  Before I forget, and there’s no one left who knows who you are.  What you survived.  And before you argue with me, Guy,” Jean-Luc said, “think about it.  Who will take care of you, when I’m gone?  You still need care.  They need to know.”

            “I don’t need to be taken care of,” Will said.

            “Won’t you?  When you lose me, Will, you will lose it all, all over again.”

            He was silent.  Would he feel all those losses, in losing Jean-Luc?  Wasn’t that why this was all so hard?  Because the fear underneath was that he would lose himself as well?

            “Guy?”

            “Okay,” Will said.  “Okay.”

            He opened the door.

            “You’re just saying good night?” Jean-Luc asked.

            “Yes.”

            “You’re coming back?  You’re not angry, Will?”

            Will’s heart was breaking.  “Of course I’m coming back,” he said, gently.  “I sleep here too.”

            “Of course you do,” Jean-Luc agreed.  “I’ll just close my eyes and wait for you, then.”

            “Okay,” Will said.  “I’ll be right back.  I won’t take a minute.”

            “I’ll hold you to that, Mr Riker,” Jean-Luc said, sliding back down under the covers and closing his eyes.

            “I expect you to, Captain Picard,” Will said.  He closed the door, and went downstairs to say good night to Rose and her fiancé.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lt Commander Alexandre Riker-Picard waits for his brother Jean-Guy at the Paris shuttle terminal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the post-Sherds universe, Captain Rowan DeSoto is the daughter of Will Riker's former captain of the Hood, Robert DeSoto.

 

 

 

 

            It was typical, he thought, of his brother to get the time wrong, or the place wrong, or the day wrong, or any of the other myriad of variables in putting together a simple trip from Oxford to Barcelona.  It wasn’t that hard.  Take the train to London.  Take the shuttle to Paris.  Meet your brother at the Starfleet shuttle terminal.  Show your identification.  Fly to Barcelona.  How difficult could it be, to someone who had been raised in deep space on the ship where his father was captain?

            He paced the confines of the officer’s lounge.  If Jean-Guy didn’t turn up on the next flight from London, they would miss the last flight from Paris to Barcelona, which meant they would have to spend the night at the Starfleet dorms, because Rose was already in Sitges for the party.  He was missing an entire week of classes for this extravaganza, which he wouldn’t have minded, he told himself, except that he knew – he _knew_ – that Papi hated these things, and that with his health being so fragile, it would most likely be a recipe for disaster.  The thought of his father – dignified, intelligent, proud – being put on display even as he was losing everything that he’d held important – the truth was, he was furious with Rose.  Of all the stupid things to be genetic, he fretted, surprise parties was perhaps the most stupid ever. 

            “Are you late for a conference, Commander?”

            He stopped pacing in front of the windows, and turned around, immediately bringing himself to attention when he realised the officer addressing him was a captain.

            “No, sir,” he answered.  “Not a conference.”

            The captain gave him a wry smile.  “Relax, Commander,” she said.  “Sadly, anxiety will not change the situation, whatever it is.  Tamsin Diako.”  She offered him her hand, and, surprised, he took it.

            “Alexandré Riker-Picard,” he said.  “And you’re right, of course, sir.  My irritation will not make my brother arrive on time.”

            If she recognised either of his fathers’ names, she didn’t say.  “Your brother is Starfleet as well?” Diako asked.  Then she said, “You can stand down, Commander.  You’re not on my bridge, even if you are in uniform.”

            He relaxed, but only slightly.  He’d been accused, once, by Jean-Guy, of most likely standing to attention in his crib, and he reckoned it was as accurate a description as any.  He preferred the Ambassador’s reliable formality to the Admiral’s spontaneity – he’d never really been able to figure out what the Admiral had wanted, and when.  It had been a source of frustration for him, and irritation to the Admiral.

            He did smile, however.  “No, sir,” he replied.  “My brother is a student at Oxford University.”

            “Really?” Diako asked.  “Sit down, Commander Riker-Picard, you’re making _me_ nervous, and I don’t have a nervous disposition.”

            “Sir,” he said, and he sat across from the seat she’d taken.

            A shuttle had landed – not Jean-Guy’s – and the room was suddenly filled with a clutter of officers.  Several acknowledged Captain Diako politely, and then a familiar voice said, “Sascha!  How are you?”

            He glanced up and then rose quickly to receive a brief hug; it was Captain DeSoto, long-time friend of the Admiral’s.

            “I’m well, sir,” he answered.  Then he nodded towards Diako and said, “Captain Diako.  Captain Rowan DeSoto.”

            “Of course,” Diako said, also standing.  “Good to meet you.”

            “I’ve got to run,” DeSoto said, “my connection is tight.  How is the Admiral?”

            “The same,” he answered.  “Working on something big, Rose says.”

            “Well, that’s exciting,” DeSoto answered.  “And the Ambassador?”

            He shrugged.  “Holding his own, for now.  Rose is there.”

            “I’m off to London,” DeSoto said, “but I will see you in a few days.”

            “Sir,” he answered.

            “Good to meet you, Captain,” DeSoto said, and walked briskly away.

            He waited a moment, for Diako to sit, and then sat down, trying not to fidget.  Jean-Guy’s shuttle was due to land at any time; he could only hope that his brother was actually on this one.

            “You are Admiral Riker’s son?” Diako asked now.  “And Ambassador Picard’s?  I did wonder.”

            “Yes,” he said, and then he smiled, briefly.  “It can be a challenge,” he admitted. 

            “Not many places you can go where someone doesn’t know one or the other,” Diako said.

            “Except Oxford,” Sascha answered.  “For all of his faults, my brother has managed to avoid that issue.”

            “The one who’s late?”

            “The one who’s always late,” he said.

            “The family rebel.”

            “In a way,” he conceded.

            “Does that make you the family good boy?” Her look was frank.

            “No,” he answered, after a moment.  “I think that role belongs to my sister, the doctor.”

            “Interesting.  Not the good boy, but not the rebel.  The responsible one, though, I’d bet.”

            He didn’t say anything.  It was beginning to feel, in a strange way, like a job interview.  The shuttle from London was announced, and he stood, turning towards the arrival gate.

            “I’m the oldest,” he answered, looking back to Captain Diako.  “So the responsible one, yes.”

            “Ambassador Picard is ill, I understand,” Diako said, but she said it in a way that was compassionate, somehow.

            “Yes,” he replied.  “It’s why the Admiral stepped down.”

            “Why he left the _Titan_ , you mean,” Diako said.

            “He keeps his hand in.  I think he’s more interested in music, these days.”

            “He does a bit more, I think, than keep his hand in,” Diako said.

            He glanced at her, sharply.  Then he said, “You were waiting for me.”

            “You’ll be finishing your classes at the Academy at the end of this semester,” Diako said thoughtfully.  “Feel like coming to space?”

            Mutely he took the chip she handed him.

            “You’re a little high strung, Commander,” she said.  “But I understand that Admiral Riker was anxiety-driven, in his posting as Robert DeSoto’s First.”

            “You already know Captain DeSoto,” he said, feeling stupid.

            Diako grinned.  “Here comes your brother,” she replied.  “Let me know, once you get settled in Spain.  I’m in London for three days, and then back to San Francisco.”

            “Yes, sir,” he said.  “But ---“

            “I know,” Diako said, laughing, “the party is this week.  Have fun with that.  Tell your father I said hello.”

            “Which one?”

            “Riker, of course,” she said, walking away.

            Jean-Guy walked up, carrying an instrument case and a duffle, and looking as if he hadn’t slept or bathed in three days.

            “Have we got time to find some food?” he asked.  “I’m hungry.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will picks up Sascha and Jean-Guy and brings them home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is a chronic psychiatric condition in which many of the symptoms -- panic attacks, nightmares, night terrors, flashbacks, hallucinations, and dissociation -- can be managed by a combination of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, mindfulness therapy, and medication. Severe stress, however, can exacerbate symptoms that were once controlled.

8. 

 

 

            Will decided to pilot the air car to the shuttle terminal in Barcelona himself.  He supposed he could have sent Locarno, seeing how late it was – especially as he’d gotten somewhat used to retiring early with Jean-Luc – but it _was_ late, and the last shuttle in, and he didn’t think a kid Locarno’s age should be ferrying around old men as part of his job description.  Why stress yourself out to join the Academy, graduate tenth in your class (he’d looked Locarno up), just to become a glorified babysitter?  Besides, he wanted to see the boys.  Rose and Graeme were perfectly capable of taking care of Jean-Luc for an hour or two, especially since Jean-Luc would already be in bed.

            They’d had a good day.  They’d gone down to the marina and Pere had showed them how far he’d gotten on readying the boat for the season.  Will had rented one of the smaller tourist boats and had taken them out on the water, the day hot and still, no good for sailing but cooler, certainly, off shore.  There were mackerel running and they saw porpoises; a very good day.  They’d had lunch at the local _comida_ in town, and had returned home happy.  He’d been waiting for Rose to make her announcement – about Grae, about her pregnancy – but she’d said nothing.  Still, she ate very little, so perhaps Jean-Luc had been right.

            He wasn’t sure how he felt about being a grandfather, which, he supposed, was stupid.  He’d been the one who’d wanted children, after all.  It had taken some time – and some therapy – to get both of them – but especially Jean-Luc – to the point where investigating the method of the two of them having children was even a consideration.  Then they’d had to wait until life in the Federation had calmed down – it wasn’t as if the _E_ was the right place for a child.  Still, they’d been supported by everyone in their attempt to create a family, and when he’d held Sascha for the first time, it had been a confirmation, of sorts, that he’d been right.  Remembering those months when Sascha was little made it hard for him to reconcile how he and Sascha had become – it wasn’t estranged, but there was a barrier between them, that had started when Sascha was an adolescent and now – well, now it was more of a gulf, wasn’t it? 

            A grandchild.  Suddenly, he hoped it was true.  The excitement of a new member of their family would be good for both of them.  He hoped it would be a girl, and that she would look just like their Rose.

            Sliding once again into admiral’s parking, he stepped out of the air car and entered the shuttle terminal, relatively quiet on a Sunday and holiday evening.  The duty officer came to immediate attention when he walked in, and he nodded at her.

            “The shuttle’s on time?” he asked.

            “Aye, sir.  ETA five minutes, sir.”

            “And Lt Commander Riker-Picard and Jean-Guillaume Riker-Picard are both on the passenger manifest?”

            “Aye, sir.  Was there a reason one of them wouldn’t be, Admiral?”

            He grinned.  “I know my younger son, Lieutenant,” he answered.  “Getting him to an appointed place at an appointed time is often an issue.”

            “Coming in now, sir,” the lieutenant said as he walked away.

            He was waiting at the gate for them, Sascha looking as if he’d just put his uniform on instead of having what had likely been a twelve or fourteen-hour day, and Jean-Guy looking – like Jean-Guy, he supposed.  Like something the cat had dragged in, and that reminded him of Data’s Spot and he smiled, hugging both of his sons, the one slightly stiff, and the other in need of a bath.  Children were weird, he decided, as he wasn’t exactly sure how he and Jean-Luc had managed to produce the three different people they had.

            “Your flight was okay?” he said, glancing at Jean-Guy’s instrument case.

            “Yes, sir,” Sascha answered.

            “I’m glad to see you made it,” he said to Jean-Guy.

            Jean-Guy shrugged.  “I had stuff to do,” he answered.

            Will glanced at Sascha, who rolled his eyes, and then he said, echoing Jean-Luc, “Indeed.  It might have been polite to let your brother know ahead of time.”

            Jean-Guy grinned.  “It might have been, yeah,” he said.

            Will shook his head and walked out, the boys following.  He smiled; he would have to stop thinking of them as “the boys.” 

            “Would you like me to drive, sir?” Sascha asked when they reached the car.

            He wouldn’t take offense.  In fact, he thought, he’d try harder to give credit as due to Sascha.  After all, he was probably exhausted, but he was thinking of _my_ exhaustion, Will thought, when I don’t do a damned thing anymore.

            “Sure,” Will said.  “Thanks.”

            He walked around to the other side and squeezed himself into the passenger seat, which of course was where Jean-Luc sat.  He powered the seat back so he wasn’t curled up on himself and didn’t say anything when Sascha had to move the driver’s seat forward.  Jean-Guy took up the entire back, having kept his instrument with him.

            “Which horn is that?” he asked, looking back as they pulled out of the terminal parking.

            “Triple,” Jean-Guy answered.  “I’ve a concert in two weeks.  Britten.”

            “I presume you’ll bathe before then?” Will asked.

            Sascha snorted, and Will shot him a warning look.

            Jean-Guy sighed.  “Of course I’ll bathe before then,” he said.  “It’s in two weeks.  That’s two baths.”

            “Don’t be such a smart ass,” Will answered, but he was grinning.  “You did bring clothes?  For the party, I mean?”

            “What party?” Jean-Guy asked innocently.

            “The surprise party the three of you have planned,” Will answered.  “Because, in the interest of not stressing Papi out, you will be required to cut your hair, and trim your beard, and bathe, and put on semi-formal clothes that actually fit.”

            “These fit,” Jean-Guy said, surprised.

            “If you’re an exhibitionist,” Will returned.  “Are you?”

            Jean-Guy shrugged.  “I keep growing,” he said, as if that were an explanation of everything – the lack of bathing, the unkempt hair, the fact that his trousers were indecently too tight.

            “So no replicators and no shower facilities at Oxford,” Will said.  “Maybe you should transfer here.”

            “Not everyone was born wearing a uniform,” Jean-Guy muttered.

            “How did you find out about the party?” Sascha asked, glancing at Jean-Guy.

            “It’s something I would have done,” Will admitted, “at Rose’s age.  Just how many people did she invite?”

            “I’m not sure,” Sascha answered cautiously.

            “Half of fucking Starfleet,” Jean-Guy said cheerfully, “is what I heard.”

 

 

 

            He’d sent Locarno home, wherever that was, and kissed Rose good night, and seen that the boys were settled in, Jean-Guy in his own room and Sascha in the guest room.  He climbed the stairs up to their bedroom, and it occurred to him that perhaps he should investigate installing a lift – or perhaps they should think about moving down to the first floor.  It would mean losing the view, but, as he paused to survey the staircase and its location, it might be better than having to tear apart the centre of their house. 

            He opened the door to the room quietly, not wanting to wake Jean-Luc. Locarno was a good idea, he supposed, but the reality of the situation was only now beginning to sink in. Locarno was only one person, and he couldn’t expect to be on duty for twenty-four hours; he would have to have rest breaks, and meals, and days off, and leave.  And he was a specialist in languages, not in medicine, and the truth was, after reading over the medical reports that Rose had given him; they would need a nurse probably within the year.  He would have to go into the office, and he would have to meet with that idiot Steen, and he would have to bring the medical reports, and maybe Dr Montalvo –

            “Will.”

            He’d been standing, stupidly, by the door.  He shut it now, and answered, “Yes?”

            “What’s wrong?”

            “Nothing.”  He crossed the floor and then hit his knee on the dresser.  “ _Fuck_ ,” he exhaled.

            “Lights, thirty percent,” Jean-Luc said, and Will could _hear_ him rolling his eyes.  “Did you hurt yourself?”

            “No,” he replied, and then he said, “ _Fuck_ ,” again, rubbing his knee.

            “You could have turned the lights on when you came in, you know,” Jean-Luc told him, sitting up.

            He straightened himself, trying not to swear again.  “I thought you were asleep,” he answered.

            “I was waiting for you,” Jean-Luc said reasonably.  “Do you need ice?”

            “No,” Will said shortly, “I do not need ice.”

            Jean-Luc said nothing, and he crossed into the head.  He stripped out of his clothes and took a quick shower, ignoring the bruise swelling on his knee.  Ten minutes and he was drying off, and putting his pyjamas on, and brushing his teeth.

            “You’re limping,” Jean-Luc said.

            “I’ll live,” he answered.  He sat down on the edge of the bed.

            “Will you?”  The irony was unmistakable.

            “Yes.”  He slid under the covers, but didn’t lie down.  “Lights, ten percent,” he said.

            “How are the boys?”

            “They thought you were asleep.”

            Jean-Luc was silent, and then he said, impatiently, Will thought, “Yes, I know that.  How are they?”

            “Sascha is the same,” Will answered.  “He’s enjoying his classes.”

            “Does he know what he’s going to do yet?”

            “If he does, he didn’t say.”

            “And Jean-Guy?”

            Will sighed.  “Jean-Guy,” he said, “no longer believes in bathing.”

            Jean-Luc glanced at him.  “He doesn’t get _that_ from my side of the family,” he said, finally.

            Will gave a shout of laughter, and Jean-Luc said, “Shhh.  You’ll wake Rose.”

            “Are you suggesting, Jean-Luc, that dirt, like musicality, is genetic?” 

            “No,” Jean-Luc replied slowly, “but, perhaps, unpredictability is.”

            “I’ve always been predictable,” Will said.

            “Have you?” Jean-Luc asked.  “We shall ask your poker partners, when we see them.”

            “Did Rose finally confess to the party?”

            “No,” Jean-Luc answered, smiling.  “She was betrayed by her intended.”

            “Does she know he told you?” Will couldn’t help grinning.  Rose on the warpath was a fearsome sight.

            “Certainly not, Mr Riker,” Jean-Luc said.

            “Coward,” Will chided, gently.

            Jean-Luc’s dark eyes glittered.  “Why don’t you turn down the lights and come here?” he suggested.

            “Lights off,” Will responded, and then he reached for Jean-Luc.  “Just remember we have a full house,” he murmured.

            “Immaterial,” Jean-Luc answered, his voice low, “as we are certainly far too old to be having sex.”

            Will’s laughter was quieted by Jean-Luc’s kiss, and then he said, resting his head on Jean-Luc’s chest, “I’m sorry.”

            “I know, _mon cher_ ,” Jean-Luc said, his hand in Will’s hair.  “You sleep, now.  It will be all right.”

            It won’t, Will thought, but he closed his eyes.

 

           

            He was running down the path behind the cabin, the woods dark and full of strange shapes.  For some strange reason he was barefoot, and he kept stubbing his toes and stepping on brambles.  There was no moon, and yet he could see the path in front of him, and even though he knew, he knew where the path would take him, and what he would find, he was compelled to follow it anyway, his chest pounding and his breath coming in harsh sobs.  He could hear the water of the creek, and the rustling of night animals in the woods, and then he was standing on the bank, shivering with cold; but it wasn’t Rosie who was in the creek, it was his father, his chest blistered and burned, smiling his tiger-smile and saying, “It’s all right, son.  You can let him go.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose hears her father, and decides to offer her professional help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the series of post-Sherds stories, as well as in A Million Sherds itself, Will has a recurring nightmare that is partially based on memory, concerning the discovery of the body of his friend Rosie Kalugin. It is this nightmare that seems to surface whenever he has trouble managing his anxiety.

9.

 

 

 

            Grae said, “Rose?  Rose, there’s something wrong.”

            She opened her eyes and it was as if she were a little girl again, half-asleep in a darkened room, listening to muffled crying and the low murmuring of Papi’s voice.  Where had she been, for this memory?  And how could she have forgotten it?  Somehow, maybe when she was nine, or ten, she’d figured out that underneath that larger-than-life personality, there was a brittleness, a fragility that was only dealt with late at night when their rooms were dark and her brothers were asleep.

            It’s why, she thought suddenly, she had become a doctor.

            “I’m going to them,” she told Grae.

            She sat up and pushed the quilt down.

            “Rose,” Grae said, placing his hand on her arm.  “Think about what you’re doing.”

            She turned to him.  “He is in pain,” she answered, “and I am a doctor.”

            “We’re both doctors, Rose,” Grae said, taking her hand, “and your fathers are brilliant adults, who are well aware that there are two professionals in their house.”

            “They’re not necessarily aware,” she replied, sitting on the edge of the bed.  “As soon as I’m in this house I’m their Rosie, and no one else.”

            Grae smiled.  “You will find that true, I think, of _my_ parents’ house,” he said, also sitting on the edge of the bed.  “It could be nothing.  Shouldn’t we just wait, to see if they’ll send for us?”

            Rose noticed that he’d turned her “I’m going” into an “us,” and she sighed.  “Graeme,” she began.  She thought about that little girl, lying in her bed, listening to the sounds of night coming from her fathers’ room.   “I can remember,” she tried again, “listening to this when I was little.  To the sound of him – the Admiral – crying late at night.  He was trying to be quiet, and I can remember listening to Papi talking to him, and I would lie there in bed, and I would think that when I grew up I would make him better.” She looked at Grae. “I don’t know if I can make him better,” she said.  “But I’m a neuro-psychiatrist, and I can try.”

            “But what if,” Grae said, and he came round the bed and sat beside her, “what if they don’t want your help?  What if it’s an intrusion?  What if you embarrass him?”

            She sighed again.  “Papi is very ill,” she said.  “Oh, I know, he’s holding his own.  For now.  But it won’t be long, Grae, and you know that as well as I do.”  She leaned into him, and he put his arms around her.  “He’s been taking care of my dad for as long as I can remember.  You haven’t noticed, yet.  You’ve only seen Dad, being careful with Papi.  But – “ She paused, and then she smiled.  “Watch.  He’ll get into this weird headspace that he goes into – and you’ll hear Papi, or me, or Jean-Guy, or Sascha tell him to breathe.”

            “What do you think he has?” Grae asked.

            “I don’t know,” she said.  “It can’t be too terrible, or they would have forced him into a medical retirement.  An anxiety disorder of some kind, would be my guess.”

            “Maybe they needed him,” Grae suggested, “and so allowances were made that wouldn’t happen for someone else.  He is very famous, you know.”

            She rolled her eyes.  “ _Please_ ,” she said.  “Do you have any idea how many awards ceremonies I’ve had to attend?”

            “What do you want to do, Rose?” he asked.

            She thought she could still hear him weeping, and she slid out from Grae’s arms and stood up.  “I’m going to offer to help,” she said.  “That’s all.  Just knock on the door, and ask.  If they tell me no, I’ll go away.”

            Grae stood up and kissed her gently.  “Just don’t,” he said, “upset yourself.  There are the both of you, now, to consider.”

            “I don’t think this mission is that dangerous,” she said, grinning.  She hunted for her med kit and found her tricorder. “We’ll be all right.”

 

 

           

            She could hear Papi’s low voice speaking something in French, but she could no longer hear the Admiral’s weeping, and she hesitated, standing at their closed door.  What if, she thought, Grae were right?  What if her presence simply was an intrusion on their privacy?  The thought that she could cause the Admiral embarrassment – she took a deep breath.  The truth, she thought, was that children did this every day.  They took care of parents who were aging, attending physical needs that might once have been an embarrassment but were no longer, simply because it had to be done.  Her Papi’s world was constricting and there would come a time when he would simply forget how to care for himself, and who she was, and finally, his own identity.  As for the Admiral –

            I am a doctor, she thought, and I have a patient who needs my help.

            She knocked, lightly, on the door, and heard Papi’s low voice say, “Come.”  She opened the door and poked her head in.  The lights were on at about twenty percent; Papi had his arms wrapped around the Admiral whose face was buried in his pyjama top; he was trembling but no longer crying.  “What can I do?” she asked, stepping inside.

            “You can check his blood pressure,” Papi said, and she was surprised by his use of his command voice, “if you have your tricorder with you.  And you can help me give him his medication.”

            “Yes, sir,” she said, before she realised it was an automatic response to his authority.  She said, “Lights, thirty percent,” and walked over to Papi’s side of the bed.  “Dad,” she said.  “Will you let me check your vitals?”

            “I’m fine now, Jean-Luc,” he protested.  “I don’t need my vitals checked, and I don’t want any medication.”

            “William,” Papi said with a finality that truly brooked no opposition.

            “Shit,” he responded, and he pulled away and sat up.

            His face was tearstained and swollen, and Rose could see his hands were still shaking.  “If you could move back over here, Dad,” she said calmly, “I’ll take your vitals and it won’t take a moment.”

            He slid over to his side of the bed and she walked briskly over to him, and then ran the tricorder.

            “I already know my blood pressure is up,” he said irritably.  “It always is when this happens.”

            “And what is _this_ , Dad?” she asked.  She glanced at his numbers; his blood pressure was high, but not alarmingly so.  “Are you already taking medication for your blood pressure?”

            “No,” he answered.  “My blood pressure is fine as long as I’m asymptomatic.”

            “And are you asymptomatic?” she asked.  “And you still haven’t told me what’s going on.”

            “We were waiting for all of you to be here,” Papi said.  “We were going to ask for a family meeting to discuss your father’s illness today.”  He reached out for Dad’s hand and took it, squeezing it gently.  “You need to know, because you won’t just be dealing with my illness.  You’ll be dealing with his, too.”

            “I had one nightmare,” Dad said, and she could hear the frustration in his voice.  “One, Jean-Luc.  It was a bad one, and it took me by surprise.  This whole week –“ He paused, as if he were searching for words.  “This whole week has been very stressful.  But we’re doing what needs to be done, to manage the situation.  I wasn’t prepared for it, that’s all.  For the logistics of it.”

            “Will,” Papi said, and then he sighed.

            “It’s all right, Papi,” Rose said.  “I’ve treated reluctant patients before.”

            “I am not,” Dad said quietly, “your patient.  I have my own doctor, whom I will speak to in the morning.”

            “Is Mr da Costa coming to this extravaganza of yours, Rose?” Papi asked.

            “You mean the party?” She grinned, and put the tricorder down.  “I believe he is.  I’d have to check the list.”

            “You can talk to him when he’s here, then, Will.” 

            “I still don’t know what you’re being treated for, Dad,” Rose said.

            Dad swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up.  “PTSD,” he said, standing.  “I’m going to the head.”

            “You can bring the medication with you,” Papi told him.

            Rose watched as the Admiral stopped in the middle of the floor and stared at Papi, one Starfleet command officer to another, neither of them prepared to give an inch.  It was an interesting glimpse into their relationship, she thought, one that was a series of compromises and command decisions between two men who had, at one point or another, commanded all of Starfleet.  She’d always seen the Admiral as the one who backed down, but there was going to be no backing down here.

            “And just which medication do you propose to give me, Jean-Luc?” he asked, and his voice would have been considered insubordinate if the other man had still been his captain.  “I was unprepared for the imagery of the dream.  I am cognizant of what it means.  I am aware of the stress I am under, and the anxiety I am experiencing.  I am not,” and he began to count with his fingers, “having panic attacks, or flashbacks, or hallucinations, or dissociating.  I do not need an anti-psychotic.  I do not need more anti-anxiety medication than I am already taking.  And I probably could have gone back to sleep, if this hadn’t become a fucking three-ring circus.”  With that, he stalked into the head, and slammed the door.

            “You did that on purpose,” she said to Papi, laughing.

            Papi shrugged.  “Sometimes he just needs to be reminded of who he is,” he answered.

            “He’s really angry,” Rose said.  She pulled the desk chair over, and sat beside the Ambassador.

            “He’ll get over it,” Papi said succinctly.  “He always does.”

            “How long has he had the diagnosis?” she asked.

            “The diagnosis, or the disorder?” Papi straightened out the bedcovers.  “Would you mind getting me a cup of tea?” he asked.  “Seeing as how no one’s going to bed anytime soon.”

            “Both,” she answered.  “No, I don’t mind.”  She wished they’d installed a replicator in the bedroom, as most people had, but they were old-fashioned enough to insist on using a kitchen as opposed to replicators most of the time.  She’d always thought that was an affectation on their part, when she was younger, until she’d realised that Papi had grown up in a household which had no replicators at all, and Dad had grown up in a tribal village which still ate animals for food.

            “He was diagnosed on the _D_ ,” Papi answered, “in the beginning of our relationship.  And he’s had the disorder most of his life.”

            “Oh,” she said.  She thought about that statement and what it meant.  And then it was as if a light came on in her head and she thought, How could I have not seen this?  And then, And I became a neurologist.

            Grae said, “I thought, since everyone is up, tea might be appreciated,” as he pushed the door open, carrying a tray with the tea service on it.

            The Admiral opened the door to the head and said, “Why don’t you wake up Sascha and Jean-Guy, and we can have the fucking family meeting now?”

            “Don’t be disagreeable, Guy,” Papi chided.  “Grae is trying to ingratiate himself into the family and is succeeding.”

            Rose stood up to help Grae, but wrapped her arms around the Admiral first.  “Don’t be cross, Daddy,” she said.  “You can get back in bed, and we’ll serve you, and you and Papi can sleep in in the morning.  There’s nothing planned for either of you, except,” and as she pulled away, she gave him her cheekiest grin, “figuring out how to get Jean-Guy to take a shower.  Sascha, Grae, and I have work to do on the party.”

            He hugged her back and kissed the top of her head.  “All right, Rosie,” he agreed, and she could hear that his equanimity was back. 

            They drank the tea in silence, watching the dawn break over the sea.  She put her cup down on the tray and said, “Who told you about the party?”  She saw the Admiral glance at the Ambassador, and the two of them smiled, the kind of smile they’d been giving each other, she thought, for almost forty years.

            “Apparently,” Papi said, in that wry voice of his, “surprise parties are genetic.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Jean-Luc share a quiet moment and deal with Will's nightmare, and then Will tells his story to their kids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to Haman is to the arch-villain of the Purim story; as per the post-Sherds story, Haman's Son. In A Million Sherds, the major trauma of Will's battered childhood is centered on the disappearance of his best friend Rosie.

10. 

 

 

            Rose, of course, had thought that she could convince Jean-Luc to go back to bed, after Graeme had gathered up the tea things and taken them back downstairs.  Will saw no harm in letting her try, even though there was no way he was returning to bed either.  Jean-Luc had been arising before dawn for over seventy years.  “Sleeping in” was a phrase simply not in his vocabulary.  Finally she gave up, and went to help Grae or some such nonsense.  They were young and clearly meant for each other, and he knew only too well the tug of closeness that followed every movement away from the person with whom you were meant to be; he and Jean-Luc had played planet and satellite, orbiting each other, for almost forty years.  It had been so easy on the _D_ , after he’d recovered and they’d forged the boundaries of the professional relationship and the personal one; he’d spent so many hours on the bridge with the captain, or in meetings with the captain, or having drinks, in their later years on the _D_ , with the captain, when they’d become friends; no one had questioned their closeness, the ways in which they managed to remain in each other’s company while working on other things.  He’d gotten the nerve, once, to ask Deanna what the crew thought about it, and then wished he hadn’t; she’d given him that self-satisfied smirk of hers and informed him that the crew thought they were “cute.”  He had not given _that_ particular insight to Jean-Luc.  On the _Titan_ , he’d been the planet and Jean-Luc the satellite; that had been a little more difficult to negotiate, simply because as Ambassador, Jean-Luc was gone for weeks at a time, and when he returned from wherever the Federation had sent him, Will had simply wanted to hang a “Do Not Disturb” sign on their quarters and vanish inside for a week.  Or two.  Still, they’d managed, and he could appreciate the way Rosie draped her fingers, lightly, over Grae’s skin in a gesture that was achingly familiar.

            He finished making their bed, and then opened the French doors to the verandah and stepped outside.  Jean-Luc was still in the head, having assured him that he was perfectly fine to dress himself.  He’d had two good days, having only a few lapses, and it was of course much too soon to attribute that to the new medication, but Will was quite aware that the excitement of the kids being home, and the stress of his waking from his old nightmare, would at some point take its toll.  He leaned on the railing and sighed.  The morning was a little cooler, and there was a smudge on the horizon that hinted at rain. 

            Rose hadn’t been particularly forthcoming about the work she and Sascha needed to do, and his imagination couldn’t picture the two of them working for long on the party anyway.  Sascha was a details man, and Rose was all about the big picture; one would think that would lead to harmony and togetherness but what it had led to, when they’d been small, was tears and tantrums on Rose’s part and sullen silence on Sascha’s.  However, Grae seemed to be a sensible human being, and perhaps his stabilising presence would be just what brother and sister needed to finish the organising of what Jean-Luc was now calling Rose’s extravaganza.  He had no idea where the venue was; probably the old Navy yacht club, he thought.  As long as it wasn’t in his home, he didn’t really care.

            He could feel that he was anxious again.  Rose hadn’t said when she and Sascha would be leaving, and he knew from long experience that when Jean-Luc said it was time for a family meeting, that meant within the hour; at most, two.  Jean-Luc had run family meetings the way he’d run his staff meetings; on time; when needed; everyone had a say; and then the command decision was made.  Everyone dismissed; go do your job.  Somehow, Will thought, this particular family meeting was not going to fit into that particular model.  And while he understood the necessity, especially after this morning, of speaking to Rose about his illness, he failed to see why it was required viewing for everyone.  Yes, he’d had his old nightmare, and given the stress he was under, it wasn’t surprising.  Yes, it had shocked him when it hadn’t been Rosie, or Jean-Luc, or even himself, in the creek, but his father.  But he hadn’t been weeping because he was frightened, or because seeing his father in the water in the same condition he’d been in right before he died (I shot him, he thought) had been horrifying; it was because of the truth of what his father had said.  _It’s okay, son. You can let him go._

            He didn’t want to let Jean-Luc go.  He’d turned his head into Jean-Luc’s chest and bawled like a baby because he knew it was the truth, that he would have to let Jean-Luc – his Jean-Luc, the man he’d admired and then loved for half his life – go.  There would be another Jean-Luc in his place, a smaller, frailer one; one who wouldn’t remember him; who wouldn’t remember to touch him, lightly, on his shoulder; who wouldn’t remember to brush what was left of his hair off his forehead; who wouldn’t remember that there had been a time when a soft kiss on the back of his neck would lead to that act of fulfillment and completion he’d never experienced with anyone else.  And then _that_ Jean-Luc would slip away, and he’d be alone.  And so he’d wept, and he’d allowed Jean-Luc to hold him and comfort him the way he’d done all those years ago in sickbay, when it had been seeing Rosie in the creek that had set him off.  It had been enormously selfish on his part, he thought, interrupting Jean-Luc’s sleep, which was sure to lead to a return of the fog at some point today, and then interrupting Rose’s, when she was newly pregnant.  But he would take those strong arms around him, and the murmuring of French in his ear, and he would file it away in his cabinet where he’d only before placed the bad memories.  This memory, at least, wouldn’t need his key.

 

 

            He heard the door open, and then he felt, rather than saw, Jean-Luc stand beside him.  He could smell the soap Jean-Luc used, and the aftershave, a hint of spice and mint.  He took a deep breath, breathing it in.  He was being stupid, he knew, but he didn’t care.  He knew from his treatment that smells made the strongest memories.  Besides, Jean-Luc would just think he was working on his anxiety.

            Jean-Luc placed his hand, lightly, on Will’s shoulder and squeezed.  “You never told me who was in the creek,” he said, his voice low.

            Will wrapped his arm around Jean-Luc’s waist and pulled him close.  “Doesn’t matter,” he answered.  “It was just one of those things.”

            Jean-Luc said nothing.

            “Are you hungry?” Will asked.  “I found some herring.”

            Jean-Luc made a noise that sounded like a cough.  “Did you forget our daughter is pregnant?” he asked.  “Do you want her to spend the morning in the head?”

            “We don’t really know that she’s pregnant,” Will said.

            “Graeme rested his hand on her stomach,” Jean-Luc remarked.

            “Ah,” Will said.  “We can have the herring for lunch, I guess, when she and Sascha are out.”

            “Do we still have the eggs from Mercè?  You could make a frittata, Will.”

            “I could,” Will agreed.  “I’ve got a few tomatoes, and some shallots.  I think I have some cubanelles.”

            “I don’t mind being sous chef,” Jean-Luc offered.

            Will said, lightly, “I love you, too.”  He kissed Jean-Luc’s cheek.  “I’m okay,” he said.  “I am, I promise.  You can sit outside with Sascha and have your tea, or you can sit in the kitchen with me.  I’ll be fine.”

            “Then tell me who was in the creek,” Jean-Luc said, “and I’ll be less likely to continue to worry.”

            “It will upset you,” Will said.  “And I’m okay.  And I will talk to da Costa.  Today, if you want me to.”

            Jean-Luc looked up at Will, and Will could see that no matter how many reassurances he gave, Jean-Luc would not be that easily convinced.  It was, he thought, a bit unnerving.  He looked away, back out to sea.

            “We could have the boat ready by the weekend,” he said.  “If the weather holds.”

            “And take our friends out?” Jean-Luc took Will’s hand.  “That would be nice, Will.”

            “It was saying I’d talk to da Costa, wasn’t it?” Will asked.

            “It’s called overkill, _mon cher_ ,” Jean-Luc said.

            “It was my father.”

            Jean-Luc was silent.

            “I was standing on the bank, and I was cold, because I was barefoot, and I was only wearing shorts and a t-shirt.  And I knew it wasn’t the memory of finding Rosie, because I wasn’t ever dressed that way.  Not in September.  So I knew it was just a dream…and then he rolled over, and he looked exactly the way he had when he died.  With his chest burned.  And then he said what he’d told me, then.”

            “When you were about to fall, you mean?  He told you to let him go?” Jean-Luc asked.

            He wouldn’t cry.  Just breathe, Mr Riker, he thought.  Just breathe, because maybe, just maybe, he won’t understand.

            “No,” Will said.  “He told me to let you go.”

            “And so you shall,” Jean-Luc said, “when the time comes.”  He squeezed Will’s hand, and then turned towards the door.  “But that time isn’t now, Guy,” he said.  “So go wash your face, and let’s have breakfast.  And then,” he added, opening the door, “we’ll have our family meeting.  And we will tell our children what they need to know, about your illness.  And Rose will give us the good news.  And then we shall throw Jean-Guy into the pond, so that he _has_ to take a bath.”

            Will wiped his face with his sleeve.  “But that will kill my fish, Jean-Luc,” he protested, “and I worked really hard to get those stupid fish to stay alive in the pond.”

            “You can afford to be just a little silly, Mr Riker,” Jean-Luc said.

 

 

            Rose wanted to eat outside, because the morning had turned lovely; warm with a cooling breeze off shore, and the scent of the pear and the blood orange blossoms in the air.  Grae, not surprisingly, turned out to be a whiz with a knife, and Will set him chopping shallots and cubanelles and dicing tomatoes, so that Jean-Luc could sit with the children and talk about the boat, and the weather, and, he hoped, their plans to go on holiday.

            “Why do you cook?” Grae asked, and then he said, quickly, “I mean, Rose said you’ve always cooked, even when you were a captain.”

            Will glanced at the young man, whose face was flushed, just a bit, even though he was trying to hide it.  He didn’t answer at first, because he wasn’t sure what the young man was asking.  He slid the plate with the chopped vegetables into the skillet, having minced the garlic himself, and then added the herbs.  He had a mug of coffee on the counter and he picked it up and sipped it.  It was true that he and Jean-Luc had been the only male married couple on a ship, but that didn’t really mean much, because, of course, any married couple running a ship was unusual.  Captaincy often precluded having a family – it was the reason why Jean-Luc had been alone, all those years.  Usually, a captain’s spouse was a civilian – Geordi’s parents had been a prime example of that arrangement – but it was still hard, even for a civilian, to try to raise a family in the ‘Fleet.  Their choices had been analysed to death, but somehow, they’d managed to make it work because they’d both run their ships as their family by choice.  Everyone onboard had been involved in the raising of their kids.

            He said, “If you could ask your Rose to come in here and help serve, that would be good.  Everyone’s breakfast will be hot, then.”

            “Yes, sir,” Graeme responded.  He walked to the door.

            “You’re not in the service,” Will said, “so there’s no real need for you to ‘sir’ me, you know.  You can just call me Will.”

            “I could try,” Grae said, “but when Rose calls you the Admiral….” He shrugged and went outside.

            They were back in a minute, and Will plated the frittatas, adding to each plate the spicy red potatoes and thick slabs of fry bread that he’d made.  He made sure that everyone had what they needed and then joined them outside at the patio table, refilling Jean-Luc’s mug of tea before he sat down.

            “I learned to cook,” he said to Grae, after they’d finished eating, “because my mother died when I was a baby, and there was a period of time when I was six or so that my father stayed home, and we had no housekeeper.  He hated to cook, except for one or two things, and he’d bought a replicator.  But I missed cooking –“ He stopped, because he could feel that Jean-Luc had taken his hand.

            “Breathe,” Jean-Luc said.

            He breathed.  “I don’t want to do this, Jean-Luc,” he said.

            “I know, Will,” Jean-Luc answered, “but you must.  We must.”  He paused, looking at his hand in Will’s, and then he said, “When are you and Sascha leaving, Rose?”

            “The venue isn’t even open until ten hundred,” Sascha answered. 

            “Perhaps we can get a refill on your father’s coffee.  And Jean-Guy can clear, if you will help him, Grae.  And then your father has a story he needs to tell.”

            It wasn’t surprising, Will thought, that there was none of Jean-Guy’s cheekiness now.  After all, even Jean-Guy knew a family meeting when he saw one, and each one of their children had been raised in an atmosphere in which obedience to authority could save one’s life.  Jean-Luc continued to hold his hand, and he realised it was because his hands were shaking.  He tried to still them, but then gave up.

            There were things you didn’t tell kids, he thought.  Kids needed to know that the world was safe and their families loved them; that they could trust that the adults in their lives always had their best interests at heart.  They could learn about evil in fairy tales and epic children’s stories, in the mythologies of their parents’ heritage, perhaps; in the retelling of _Egil’s Saga_ or _Gilgamesh_.  Even on a ship in deep space, they’d managed to give their kids that level of protection, before they were hold enough to realise that the story of Haman had an application to the real world.

            The dishes were cleared, and Jean-Guy came out with more tea for Jean-Luc and coffee for him.  There were things you didn’t tell kids, he knew, but they weren’t kids any more.  Jean-Luc was right; they needed to know.

            He sighed, and felt Jean-Luc squeeze his hand.  He said, “I don’t really know how to do this, or what to say.  But Papi is right.  You need to know about me – about my story – and you need to know about the illness I’ve had for most of my life.”  He paused, and then he said, “The truth is that Papi is one of the few people left who knows what happened.  And one of these days he’ll tell me to breathe, but he won’t remember why.”

            “Oh, Will,” Jean-Luc said.

            “And you need to know why I have to be told to breathe.”  He’d said he would do it – he’d said he’d tell – and he would.  Because he always did what he said he would do.  “And why, Rose, you sometimes heard me crying at night, the way you did this morning.”

            Sascha said, “Dad.  You don’t have to do this.  You have PTSD.  We know.  Rose told us.”

            He felt helpless, in the face of their wanting to help him.  He could feel his words drifting away, to that space where they went and then he was left with only his old ten, and ten words would not be enough to tell this story.  He hated this about himself, that he could order photon torpedoes to be fired, and he could lead an away team, and he could close the bulkhead on a crewmember because he could only save the ones he could save; but he couldn’t do this.  He couldn’t look at their faces and change the way they thought of him. 

            He felt Jean-Luc’s hand on his shoulder, with just the slightest bit of weight to it, that gentle pressure that told him he was no longer alone.

            He said, “When I was a little boy, around six years old, I had a best friend, whose name was Rosie.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean-Guy discovers the piece his father his working on, and then discovers a little bit about himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The horn Jean-Guy plays is the French horn, double and triple. And there's just something about composing by hand as opposed to computer program. It seems so Will Riker to compose by hand.

 

 

 

            He hadn’t meant to go into his father’s office, he thought, even as he found himself standing in the darkened room.  And of course his father didn’t call it his office, even though that’s what it was; he called it the music room, to distinguish it from the room where he handled whatever it was he did for Starfleet.  Still, Jean-Guy thought, this was where his father worked.  There was a shelf of antique scores, and his father’s padd, as well as a computer setup; there was the piano and a keyboard, and both of his father’s trombones hanging on the wall.  There was a music stand with sheet music, and a mug still half-full of coffee.  The room was at the back of the house, so the window provided a view of the garden, but his father had the blinds pulled, and the room had an almost disused feel, as if he hadn’t been in it for a while.

            That was probably because he hadn’t, Jean-Guy thought.  He was too busy taking care of Papi, to work on whatever Rose had said he was working on.  Jean-Guy knew from one of his friends in Barcelona that the Admiral hadn’t been to his studio in over a week; that his students were concerned that he was in over his head, and that he would have to give the studio up.  That, Jean-Guy thought, would be a shame, because his father was always at his best when he was teaching.

            “Lights, forty percent,” Jean-Guy said, and he opened the blinds, and then he opened the window and looked out. 

            The garden looked the same as it had two hours before, when they’d breakfasted on the patio, but of course, it wasn’t.  He didn’t think he would be able to look at the garden in the same way again.  It had been a happy place for him as a child, as he’d been maybe three or four when they’d started coming to Sitges for their annual holidays.  The Admiral had taken the garden on, expanding it, adding the pond and the pool, the fruit trees and the playhouse, the shed.  Jean-Guy remembered being so proud to bring his friends from the ship on their holidays (something even Papi had encouraged), to show them his bedroom overlooking the water and then to play in the garden with Rose and Sascha and their friends, who somehow, when on holiday, never seemed to object to playing with the “baby.” 

            Now, the garden seemed – sad.  His father had created this wonderful place for his children to play, a place that had seemed magical when he was a child, and it wasn’t because his father was recreating a special place from his own childhood but because he was creating the one place he’d never had.  It was, Jean-Guy thought, almost unbearably sad.

            He turned away from the window and sat down at his father’s piano.  There was a score, clearly an orchestral score, on the bench, an honest old-fashioned _score_ , handwritten, the writing precise and neat.  He wondered where anyone found blank scores anymore, and so he opened it, thinking perhaps it was a transcription of an older piece of music.  He didn’t know why his father would want to do that by hand; there were thousands of archived scores – maybe even millions – just a click away.  There was no title; no indication, other than the single word “symphony” to indicate which symphony this was or whose.

            Jean-Guy couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t hear music in his head.  His father had started playing games with him when he was very small, singing a pitch which he had to sing back, changing tempo and rhythm.  Sometimes his dad would just sing notes; other times there were silly words.  He remembered blowing on his father’s mouthpiece; he remembered writing his first song, learning the notes and what they meant, how they felt when he wrote them down, what colours they were as he played them.  His father had never really discussed music with him, other than suggesting which instruments he might play, and had seemed pleased when he’d picked his first horn.  He’d never asked if his father heard music in his head the way he did; he supposed, looking at the full orchestral score in his hands, that he’d been an extraordinarily self-centered child.  The man who’d composed this symphony had incredible things to say, and yet he’d never once thought to ask.  He thought about the story his father had told them in the garden, and he felt ashamed.

 

 

 

            “Jean-Guy.”

            He didn’t know how long Papi had been standing in the doorway, speaking to him.  He put the score down and looked up at his father.  He’d dressed himself with his usual precision and neatness and yet there seemed to be something off, and Jean-Guy, for a moment, didn’t know what.  Then he realised the buttons to the Ambassador’s tunic were misaligned.

            He stood up and said, “Here, let me do that for you,” and rebuttoned Papi’s tunic.  The fact that his papi stood there and allowed him to redo the buttons without protest seemed somehow worse than if he’d gotten angry.  He should have gotten angry.  He should have told him to fuck off.  Instead he stood there, and allowed Jean-Guy to redo his shirt.

            “I thought you might like to meet Mr Locarno,” Papi said now.  “Mr Locarno will be working with me, and helping your father out.”

            “Okay,” Jean-Guy said.  He looked back at the score; brushed it with his fingers.

            “Perhaps,” Papi said, after a moment, “you should have gone with Sascha and Rose.”

            “I would have been a nuisance to them,” Jean-Guy answered.  “And Sascha doesn’t really want to be seen with me.”

            “Maybe you should consider bathing,” Papi said.  “People might be inclined to be accepting of you.”

            He shrugged.  “Appearances are deceiving,” he answered.  “What is clean on the outside might be filthy inside.”

            “A sophist’s argument,” Papi said.  “What were you looking at?”

            “This.” Jean-Guy handed him the score.

            “What is it?”

            “What the Admiral has been working on,” he replied.  “Rose told me he was working on something big.  She has no idea.”

            “Is it finished?” Papi asked.

            “Mostly,” Jean-Guy answered.  “There are some sketched in places, still.  The ending seems – uncertain, somehow.  As if there were two separate ways it could go, and he hasn’t decided which.  But,” he added, “I’m not sure I understand it, fully.  It may be that the ending is supposed to be that way.  I haven’t had time to really study it.”

            Papi gave it back to him.  “I didn’t know he was working on something original,” he said.

            “He writes original pieces all the time,” Jean-Guy said, feeling oddly defencive.  “It’s just that they’re smaller, for ensembles, or combos, or they’re vocal pieces.  I heard a band do some of his work in London, a few months ago.”

            “But this is different?”

            “It’s a symphony,” Jean-Guy said.  “It’s very old-fashioned.  Lyric, in places.  I don’t know how to describe it.  Shocking, I guess.”

            “Why would it be shocking to you, Jean-Guy?” Papi asked, and there was a gentle quality to his voice that made Jean-Guy just want to wrap himself inside his father’s arms.

            “Because I don’t know who this person is,” Jean-Guy said.  “This morning I thought I knew my father.  Then I find out that I have never known him.  That he’s someone entirely different from who I thought he was.”

            “You are growing up,” his papi said, smiling, “and discovering that your parents are completely separate human beings from yourself.”

            Jean-Guy rested his head on his father’s shoulder.  “Is that all it is?” he asked.

            “No, _mon cher_ ,” Papi said.  “You are shocked to your very core at what your father lived through.  You – and Sascha, and Rose – have never experienced evil; you have never experienced the worst the universe has to offer.  We have managed to protect you, although I’m not sure how.  You don’t know what to do with this information.  You are afraid you’ll never be able to look at him again, without hearing his voice describing what happened.  I know, Jean-Guy.  I remember.”

            “What do you remember, Papi?”  He hated feeling this way, as if he were five years old again.

            “Listening to your father describe what happened  -- far more than what he told you today and in far greater detail – as if he were right there, experiencing it as it happened,” Papi said.  “I’d been a captain for over thirty years at that point.  I’d fought the Klingons, and the Romulans, and the Cardassians, and the Borg.  I’d been tortured and assimilated.  But I’d never experienced anything like listening to your father describe, as if it were happening to him in real time, how he was beaten and raped and tortured as a child.”

            Jean-Guy could feel that he was crying, and he tried to remember the last time something other than music had made him cry.  Perhaps, he thought, it was his father’s music that was the cause of the tears slipping down his cheeks and dampening his beard.  He could taste their saltiness in his mouth.

            “Why,” he asked into his papi’s shirt, “didn’t anyone help him?  How could no one know what was happening?  How could you kill a little girl and get away with it?”

            He felt Papi tighten his arms around his back.  “There is much more to the story than your father has told you,” he explained.  “He told you this morning what he could.  It exhausted him, physically and emotionally, to do so.  But he didn’t give you the information that we know about his father, about who his father was, and how his father could do what he did, and how his father spent his whole life doing what he did.  Not just to Dad, Jean-Guy, but to other children too.  You need to know it all – but Will can only tell so much at one time before it becomes too much.  Too much for him to tell, and too much for you to believe.”

            Jean-Guy was silent and then he said, “Why do you need this guy named Locarno?”

            “Because I am ill,” Papi said, “which you already know, Jean-Guy, and the illness is progressing.  Your father can no longer care for me by himself.  It is making _him_ ill, when we need him to be strong.”

            “I don’t want you to be ill,” Jean-Guy said.  “It’s not fair.”  He knew this only made him feel even more like a little kid, but it seemed to him that it was true.  It wasn’t fair.  He was only nineteen, and he wasn’t ready to lose his father – either one of them.

            “Perhaps I was very selfish,” Papi said, “in not having children when I was young.  But I didn’t meet your father until I was much older, and truly, your father was the first person who brought up children to me whom I didn’t run away from.”

            “That’s stupid,” Jean-Guy said.

            Surprisingly, Papi laughed.  “Indeed it was,” he agreed, kissing Jean-Guy on the cheek.  “Profoundly stupid.  If it makes you feel any better, William thought it was profoundly stupid too.”

            Jean-Guy said, “Yeah, but that’s one of Dad’s words.  He uses _stupid_ for everything.”

            “Ha.”  Papi gave a short bark of laughter.  “Don’t forget mad, and cranky, and –“

            “Difficult,” Jean-Guy finished, and he was laughing too.

            “Are you going to tell him you’ve looked at his work?” Papi asked as they left the music room.

            Jean-Guy shrugged.  “Maybe after I’ve taken a shower,” he said, “and made an appointment to cut my hair and trim my beard.”

            “You might ask Rose to take you shopping,” Papi said, without missing a beat, “as I’m sure those trousers must be uncomfortable.”

            They walked into the kitchen.  “Mr Locarno,” Papi said, “My younger son, Jean-Guy.  Ensign Locarno.”

            “Serge,” Locarno said, extending his hand.  “It’s Serge.  Good to meet you.  The Admiral was telling me you’re a musician too.”

            “I’m only a horn player,” Jean-Guy said.  “He’s the musician.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will has a conversation with Locarno, and then another with Jean-Luc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In A Million Sherds, Joao da Costa is a young man who joined Starfleet because he was rescued by one Lt Commander William T Riker. He is assigned to Will after Will's breakdown from PTSD, and becomes Will's secondary therapist, in training with Dr Alasdair McBride and Counselor Deanna Troi. Da Costa, thirty-five years later, is now a psychiatrist specialising in trauma therapy at Starfleet Medical in San Francisco, and Will's primary therapist.

12. 

 

 

 

            He heard someone open the door to the bedroom, and then step outside onto the verandah.

            “Sir,” Locarno said.

            “Yes, Ensign?” He had his padd open, but he’d just been staring at the sea.  There was weather coming; the wind had changed.

            “The Ambassador wondered if you wanted something to eat,” Locarno said.

            Will felt himself smiling, as if it were an automatic reaction.  “The Ambassador wondered if _I_ wanted something to eat?” he asked.  “Or the Ambassador wanted me to make _him_ something to eat?”

            Locarno was quiet and then he said, “Sir.  After thirty-five years together, I expect you already know the answer to that question.”

            “I expect I do,” Will agreed.  “Tell him that I will be down in a minute.”

            “I think,” Locarno said hesitantly, “he was concerned about you.”

            “I’m sure he was,” Will replied.  He paused, and then he said, “You’re dismissed.”

            “Aye, sir,” Locarno said, straightening.  “Admiral Riker?”

            He sighed.  “Yes, Mr Locarno?”

            “Is there something I need to know about this morning, sir?”

            Will looked up at the -- boy, really.  He was probably Rose’s age, maybe a little younger.  Certainly older than Jean-Guy, but not by much. 

            “Commander Steen said I would be making sure that the Ambassador was safe,” Locarno continued.  “So that you could work.  And that I was to act as your driver.  But – “  He hesitated.  “I’m not sure what the parameters of this job are, sir.  The Ambassador is currently with your son.  I guess I need to know if that’s all right for me to do, to leave him with your son.  And he seemed – worried.  And I wondered if I should be aware of how stress might impact his cognitive abilities.”

            Will closed down his padd, and rubbed his eyes.  His head was beginning to hurt, a vague echo of the pain he used to feel when he was stressed.  It is psycho-somatic, he told himself.  The injury was healed.  You’ve not had a concussion in years.  The slight queasiness in his stomach as he told the children, this gentle throbbing of his head; it is all stupid.  Stupid because of course he was feeling resistance to Jean-Luc’s illness, and to the necessity of exposing himself – and their relationship – to their children.  It seemed to him that resistance to losing your partner after thirty-five years should be completely normal.  Stupid, then, to have to catalogue these separate instances – his one panic attack, when he realised Jean-Luc was gone; his nightmare, after reading the medical reports; his queasiness and headache – as symptoms of the illness.  Each one, taken separately, was perfectly understandable. 

            Jean-Luc knew him better than he knew himself.  So was he worried because of what might happen?  Or because it was already happening?

            “Sit down, Mr Locarno,” Will said.

            “Yes, sir.”  Locarno sat in Jean-Luc’s chair.

            Will glanced at Locarno and then turned his eyes back to the view.  “Despite Jean-Guy’s current appearance,” he said, “he is competent to take care of his father, and to make him a meal, either from the replicator or from scratch.”

            “Yes, sir,” Locarno said.

            “I’m going to assume, that when you volunteered – or were volunteered – for this assignment, you researched the information available on Irumodic Syndrome,” Will said.

            “I did, sir.”

            “Then you understand,” he continued, “that there is no cure for this disease.  The neural sheaths are breaking down, and no amount of medication can keep that from happening.  These medications can only alleviate some of the more egregious symptoms.  They may prolong his life, a little, if that is what he wants, which it is not, Mr Locarno.  What he wants.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “He was a great man,” Will said.  “He knew more about Starfleet, and the Federation, in that brain of his, than anyone else.  What’s happening to him now – it’s cruel.  Callous.  Evidence of a universe that could give a shit about any of us who live in it.”

            “I’m sorry, sir,” Locarno said.

            “Stress, fatigue, excitement – any extreme of emotion can impact his cognitive abilities.  I love my daughter, Mr Locarno, but this party of hers is not one of her better ideas.”

            “And this morning, sir?” Locarno asked.  “What happened that caused the Ambassador to be so worried?”

            “Ah, fuck,” Will said, and he stood up and leaned on the railing.  “He called a family meeting, just like he used to on the _Titan_.  And we all showed up, just as we’d been trained to.”  Will’s smile was mirthless.  “And I told our children about my illness, and why I have it, and what the symptoms are.  I didn’t tell them the details, Locarno, although Jean-Luc wants them to know the details.  He wants them to know it all, every gory piece of it.  Because almost everyone who was involved is dead, Mr Locarno.”

            “Does Commander Steen know you are ill, sir?”

            “Steen?  He wouldn’t know his own name if someone didn’t tell it to him every day.”

            Locarno turned away, and Will realised he was trying not to laugh.  “Steen knows I took a partial retirement because I was injured on the _Titan_ and to deal with the Ambassador’s illness.  And that is all he knows.  And,” Will cautioned, looking directly at Locarno, “that is all he will ever know.”

            “Aye, sir.”  Locarno said, “Lt Riker-Picard has promised to go over with me things that I should know to help the Ambassador.  I hope that you will do that as well, sir, even if my appointment was awkward.”

            “I will get with her and sort it out,” Will agreed.

            “Is there anything I should know about your illness, sir?”

            “You don’t give up, do you?”  He didn’t mean to come across as stern or overbearing; it was curiosity, he thought, that he felt.  And a kind of understanding.  He’d never given up either, even when it had seemed (too often) that he’d made a mess of things.

            “No, sir,” Locarno said.

            For a moment, Will thought he reminded him of da Costa, and he grinned.  “You will sometimes, Mr Locarno,” he said, rising, “be expected to remind me to breathe.”  He opened the door, dropped his padd on the bed, and said, “I believe the Ambassador is expecting me to make him lunch.  Are you coming, Ensign?”

 

 

 

            He’d made simple sandwiches for lunch, deciding that the herring might be better used at another time, and then he sent Jean-Guy and Locarno to the market, as they were almost out of everything.

            Locarno was not happy.  “I am supposed to be with Ambassador Picard,” he protested.

            “I think,” Will answered wryly, “that I can manage to be alone with the Ambassador for the hour or so that it will take you to shop without either one of us having a breakdown.”

            Jean-Guy said, “You’d just better say yes, sir, Serge.  He won’t give in.”

            “You will find that is excellent advice,” Jean-Luc added.  “Far better to agree with Admiral Riker than to oppose him.  He has been known to get a little testy when someone tells him no.”

            Will opened his mouth to say something and then saw the look Jean-Luc gave him, and he closed his mouth without saying anything.  Instead he said, “You have the list, Mr Locarno.”

            “Aye, sir,” Locarno said. 

            There was a look, Will noted, that young Locarno gave Jean-Luc – somewhat conspiratorial, in fact – and Will wanted to grin, but refrained.  Let them form an alliance, he thought.  It will be good for Jean-Luc, to think that he is in control of everything again.

            “So, Mr Riker,” Jean-Luc said, still seated at the kitchen table, after the two young men had gone.  “You have engineered time alone.  Was there something on your mind?”

            So far, Will thought, the disease did seem to be in abeyance.  “I just thought that it would be good for the both of us to have some down time,” he answered.  “Rose and Sascha will probably be back in an hour or so, assuming they’ve stopped for lunch somewhere.  And if I’m making a meal for six or seven of us tonight, we’ll need something more than just a few herrings and some shallots.  I can cook, Jean-Luc, but I’m not a miracle worker.”

            “Ha,” Jean-Luc said.  “We do have a replicator, you know.”

            “Yes,” Will acknowledged.  “And I’m willing to wager that the last time Sascha had real food was the last time he was home.  And I’m betting that while Rose and Graeme might eat out quite a bit, and there are still places in Paris where you can get a real meal, their schedules make it difficult to have more than a decent meal or two a week…and as for Jean-Guy.  I don’t know what he’s doing.  Drugs, maybe.”

            “Ah, Will,” Jean-Luc said.  “You are too hard on the boy, I think.”

            “Am I?”

            “What would you have done, _mon cher_ , had you not been marked for Starfleet from the time you could walk?  If you could have pursued music – or athletics?”

            Will was silent.  “I like to think I still would have had personal hygiene,” he said.

            “It’s a philosophical statement he’s making,” Jean-Luc remarked.

            “What?” Will was incredulous.

            “What is clean on the outside can be filthy on the inside,” Jean-Luc said, “or at least that is what he told me.”

            Will could feel his blood pressure rising.

            “Perhaps it’s a good thing you sent him to the market,” Jean-Luc said mildly, but Will could see that brightness in his eyes again.

            “You’re laughing at _me_ ,” he said, his voice rising, just a bit.

            “You are rather predictable, you know,” Jean-Luc pointed out, “and he’s a little old to be sent to his room.”

            “He may be a musician, Jean-Luc,” he said, finally, “but he gets that philosophical shit from you.”

            “And maybe,” Jean-Luc agreed, “if my father hadn’t been so dead set against my joining Starfleet, I would have gone to the University of Bologna and majored in philosophy and anthropology.”

            “And not bathed for weeks at a time,” Will added, and he found that he was laughing, “or cut your hair, or trimmed your beard.”

            “Or wore trousers that actually fit.”

            They were silent, and Will could hear the birds chattering outside.

            “You are still the bravest man I have ever known,” Jean-Luc said, into the silence.

            Will looked away, toward the back door.

            “Rose will need our help, and Graeme’s.”

            “Was it wrong of us, Jean-Luc, to name her Rose?” Will asked.

            “No, William, it was not,” Jean-Luc said.

            “I never thought ahead, that she would have to know,” Will said.  “And even though she only knows a part of it –“

            “She is,” Jean-Luc interrupted, “a strong and wise young woman.  You named her out of love, Will.  And now she knows just how much love.  In the end, that’s all that matters.”

            “Is it?” Will asked.  He could feel his hands were shaking, and he pressed them into his legs.

            “Yes,” Jean-Luc replied simply.  “It is.”

            They sat, for a moment.

            “I wouldn’t mind resting, a little,” Jean-Luc said.  “Why don’t you come with me?”

            Will asked, “And do what?” because he was so far away, in a cabin haunted by monsters.

            “You could lie down beside me and let me hold you,” Jean-Luc said.  “That’s not an unpleasant way to spend an hour or two.”

            Will found his smile.  “You are really too much, Mr Picard,” he said, “but I do think  I would like that.”

            Jean-Luc stood up, and Will took his hand, and they walked up the stairs to their bedroom together.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose and Sascha tour the venue and come to an understanding about each other.

13. 

 

 

            Neither one of them said anything on the way to the venue, a place called Les Fonts, which included hectares of land on a bluff overlooking the sea.  Sascha had remembered the place from a Starfleet ball that he’d attended, years ago, and when she’d investigated it, it seemed perfect.  It had been the venue of a number of different resorts through the centuries due to its perfect location, and only the style of the buildings had changed with the times.  The manager, an Argentinian named D’Onorio, had been very helpful, and while Rose couldn’t say that she was looking forward to this meeting, at least she had hope that it wouldn’t be painful.

            Sascha had automatically taken the driver’s seat, when they’d gone into the garage to borrow the Admiral’s air car, and Rose felt herself rolling her eyes, but she didn’t protest.  She was still feeling a little queasy, and wondering if she should have skipped breakfast; besides, if “letting” Sascha drive meant she avoided his periodic bouts of sullenness, then she was happy to do so.

            “You have the guest list?” he asked her, as they turned into the long drive that led to the venue.

            She wondered if it were possible to have one’s eyes roll completely out of one’s head.  Surely as a doctor she should have learned that piece of arcane information.  She said, “Sascha.  We split the guest list in half.  I have my half and I’ve assumed you have yours.  Mr D’Onorio should also have a copy of the guest list.”

            “Do we have a complete list of RSVPs?” he asked, as he glided in front of the venue.  There was VIP parking, and he posted the Admiral’s flag.

            “Do we?” Rose countered, and then she grinned.

            “There you are,” Sascha said.  “I thought perhaps being in love had changed you in some fundamental way, and I wasn’t sure I liked it.”

            “You have always been an asshole, Alexandré,” Rose said, “and I too am glad to see you haven’t changed.”

            To her surprise, Sascha laughed.  They walked into the lobby of the resort, and were immediately approached by a very well-dressed flunky, attracted no doubt by their contrasting uniforms of red and blue.

            “May I be of assistance?” the flunky asked, and Rose felt her eyes begin to hurt.

            “Of course,” Sascha replied, and Rose had to stifle a grin as she recognised Papi’s mild command voice being used.  She felt sorry for the flunky.  “Lieutenant Commander Riker-Picard,” Sascha said, still pleasantly conversational, “and Dr Riker-Picard.  We have a meeting with a Mr D’Onorio.”

            “If you will follow me,” the woman offered, and walked toward a suite of offices.

            Rose wondered where the facilities were.  She was positive she should have skipped breakfast.

            “Mr D’Onorio will be with you shortly,” the woman told them, opening a door that led to a spacious but neutral office with an understated opulence which made Rose want to grind her teeth.

            “I don’t believe we have the time for that,” Sascha said.  “Our appointment is for now.  If Mr D’Onorio would prefer to meet at another time, he can contact the Starfleet office in Barcelona.”

            The woman paled.  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Commander,” she said, backtracking. 

            “Perhaps, Alexandré,” Rose suggested, sliding into the role of good cop, “Mr D’Onorio is simply momentarily delayed.”

            “Of course,” the woman agreed, taking the offering gladly.  “We are fully committed to making the anniversary party the most special event of the year.”

            Rose decided that if the woman chose to offer one more platitude she would simply puke on her eight-inch heels.  “I think,” she said, laying her hand on her brother’s arm, so that he glanced at her in alarm before he covered it up with their father’s neutral expression, “I will use the delay to find the facilities.”

            “I will be more than happy to show you to them,” the woman said quickly, and headed for the door.

            Sascha mouthed something at her, but she was too eager to get away.  In a way she was glad Graeme had asked to be dropped off at the small transport terminal in town.  He would have been overly concerned, and Rose was not quite sure she wanted to make any announcements as yet.  For one thing, it was simply too early. And for another, this was supposed to be about her parents’ anniversary.  It was not supposed to turn into some mawkish family drama.

            “Are you all right?” the woman asked now.  They were walking somewhat briskly down the tiled corridor.  “I’m Eleni Pappas.”

            “Rose,” she answered, hoping the facilities were not several hectares away.  “Rose Riker-Picard.”

            “Here you are, Rose,” Eleni Pappas said, turning down a narrow corridor.  “I’m sure you’ll find everything you need.  Perhaps,” she said, in a one woman-to-another voice, “you’d like me to find you something to settle your stomach?  Something carbonated, maybe?”

            “I will be fine,” Rose said, firmly.  “It’s momentary, I’m sure.”

            “A few weeks of momentary, anyway,” Eleni Pappas said, laughing.  “Your husband doesn’t know?”

            Rose paled at the thought of Sascha as anyone’s husband, and felt her stomach flip.  “My boyfriend,” she answered pointedly, “does know, and Commander Riker-Picard is my brother.”  She let that thought sink in, and then she added, “If you’ll excuse me,” and she pushed open the restroom door.

            Her father was an excellent cook, and she’d had many friends when she was growing up who were envious because not only was her father the captain but he also could cook a meal (when he had the time), but his frittatas, while they’d tasted good in the morning, did not taste good on their return.  She rested on her knees, trying to catch her breath, waiting for the stars to disappear, and when she was quite certain there was absolutely nothing left of her breakfast, she rose cautiously to her feet, leaning on the wall of the cubicle.

            She sighed, because Grae had been right.  She would need to see her doctor when they returned to Paris and get something to help her.  He’d accused her of being self-centered, in her insistence that she could do this quite well on her own, without help.  It was natural; it was normal; everything would be fine.  She would watch what she ate and exercise, and take the vitamins, and leave everything else to nature as it had been intended.  She stood in front of the sink and saw a young woman with dark curly hair and bright blue eyes that were ringed by purple circles and which were slightly puffy from lack of sleep.  Her father’s fair skin, which she’d inherited, was even whiter than normal.  She didn’t look well, and the truth was, she felt worse.  She washed her face and hands, and wished she hadn’t come in uniform.  In civilian clothes she could have carried a bag, and could have applied at least a little colour to her face.  She hoped that Sascha hadn’t completely alienated Vicente D’Onorio, and she squared her shoulders and left the restroom, determined to get through the rest of the meeting with her dignity intact.

 

 

            She was surprised to find Eleni Pappas waiting for her in the conference room that was empty of both D’Onorio and her brother.

            “Mr D’Onorio has begun the tour,” Pappas said in her cheery voice.  “We can catch up to them, if you’re feeling better.”

            “I’m fine,” Rose answered.

            “This way, then,” Pappas said, and Rose followed her down one tiled corridor after another until she was led into the breathtakingly beautiful main dining room, with its dance floor and its dozens of French doors opening out onto the open-aired patio, two pools, the gardens, and the sea.

            Sascha was standing by what was clearly the head table, which was spread with platters of appetisers and desserts, along with the main and side dishes.  D’Onorio was opening several bottles of wine, including, Rose could see as she walked towards the table, her father’s own label, Chateau Picard.

            “Rose,” Sascha said, coming over to her.  “Are you all right?”

            “I’m fine,” she answered.  “Just fatigue, I think.”

            He nodded, and said, “Mr D’Onorio thought we might like to sample the menu, and he’s asked us to decide on the wines.  I thought we should have champagne, for the toast, but there’s a selection for the meal and for the dessert.”

            She thought perhaps she could look at the food, even if it were best that she didn’t eat it, and she said, “Have you tasted anything yet?”

            “I think,” Sascha said, “that the Admiral will be satisfied.”

            “And have you decided on the wine?”

            “We have several bottles open, if you’d like to taste,” Vicente D’Onorio suggested.  He was a relatively tall man, not as tall as the Admiral but taller than Sascha, and he had, despite his position, a kind face.

            “I was waiting for you,” Sascha said.  “But perhaps you’d rather I chose?”

            “Please,” Rose answered.  “Whatever you choose will be perfect, Sascha.”

            “In that case,” D’Onorio said, “I will show you outside, where the dancing will be held, and then we can return to my office to go over the seating arrangements and to finalise the guest list.”

            “Yes,” Rose agreed.  “That will be good.  I’d like to check on our guests’ accommodations and we’ll need verification of the shuttle arrangements from Barcelona.”

            “Of course, Lieutenant,” D’Onorio replied.  “Or is it Doctor?  I’ve never been sure which is the correct form of address.”

            Sascha gave her one of his sly smiles, and she said, “Lieutenant in uniform, Mr D’Onorio, is acceptable.”

            As they followed D’Onorio back to his office, Sascha said, “You seem to have recovered, _Lieutenant_.”

            “You’re still an asshole, _Commander_ ,” she replied.

 

 

            They were leaving the grounds when Sascha said, “You know that I’ve thought this was a stupid idea.”

            “You’ve made that abundantly clear,” Rose returned, looking out the window. 

            Even though she’d grown up here, in Sitges, as much as she had on the _Titan_ , she never got tired of the azure horizon of the sea.  It was the one thing she longed for, being stationed in Paris.  She remembered, oh, she must have been eleven or twelve, she thought, when she’d needed to ask the Captain for something for school (she’d called him the captain, then; they all had, even Papi, because of course, he _was_ the Captain), she’d been so frustrated because she couldn’t find him.  She’d found the Ambassador in his office, and even though he’d been clearly busy she’d had no problem interrupting him.  She’d been bold as brass, she thought now, and looking at Sascha as he concentrated on piloting or whatever it was he was concentrating on, it was no wonder he was frequently irritated with her when they’d been children.  With his impeccable sense of what was and was not appropriate, and her always breaking rules and simply not caring that she had, they were really chalk and cheese.

            “What is it, Rose?” Papi had asked, looking up from his padd.  She remembered he’d looked tired, but her memory simply glossed over whatever trouble had been brewing at that time.

            “I need the Captain,” she said, “and I can’t find him.”

            Papi said, in that wry voice of his, “And I won’t do?”

            “Dr Sandoval said I had to get the Captain’s permission,” she answered.

            “Ah,” Papi said.  “School-related.  He’s not in his ready room?”

            She’d had the gall to roll her eyes, but Papi didn’t mind.  He said, smiling, “You are as incorrigible as Will is, if not more.  Try the observation deck –“  He stopped, and rubbed his eyes.  “No,” he told her.  “Today, you’ll find him in the Arboretum.”

            “Why would he go there?” she’d asked.  Papi had opened his arms, and she found herself wrapped inside them.

            “You will have to ask him that,” he answered.  “But that is where you’ll find him.”

            “Thank you, Papi,” she’d said pertly, and wriggled out of his arms.

            “Rosie,” Papi said. 

            “Yes, Papi?” She turned around.

            “Be gentle,” Papi had said.

            She hadn’t, Rose thought, understood what he’d meant, but now, thinking about how badly she missed this, her sea, when she was in her flat in Paris; and having listened to that halting tale of horror at breakfast, she thought she finally understood.  She’d found the Captain sitting on a stone bench next to the small water feature he’d insisted the Arboretum have, a little creek and a small pond with a waterfall.  Was it reassuring to him, she wondered, to be able to look into the water and not see her namesake? 

            “Rose,” Sascha was saying, his voice taking on a worried tone.  “Rose?”

            She turned to him.  “I’m sorry, Sascha,” she said.  “Wool-gathering.”  She could see he didn’t believe her, and she said, “You thought this was a terrible idea.”  It was the last thing she remembered hearing him say to her.

            “Yes,” Sascha said.  “I still think it’s a bad idea.  I think Papi is too fragile for this, and now I think Dad is, too.”

            “But?” she asked.  “Because I thought I heard a ‘but’ in there.”

            “But,” Sascha replied, smiling, even though his eyes were still worried, “since we _are_ doing this, I think you’ve done a great job.  And maybe it will be good for them both, to see all their friends.  They are so isolated here.”

            “Yes, perhaps so, in retrospect,” she agreed.  “But I think Papi is secretly looking forward to it.”

            Sascha was quiet and then he said, “You were thinking about this morning.”

            “Yes,” Rose said. 

            “I don’t know how I feel.” 

            They were coming to the _comida_ , where they’d said they would meet Grae for lunch.  “He hasn’t told us everything,” Rose said.  “I don’t think he’s told us even a fraction of it.  And I think he’s censored it.  I think – given that his symptoms have lasted most of his life – it was much worse than he’s said.”

            “It wasn’t bad enough?” Sascha asked, and Rose was surprised at the touch of bitterness in his voice.  “He named you after her, Rose.”

            “Yes.”

            “Doesn’t it bother you?”  He parked the car, and posted the Admiral’s flag.

            “I don’t know,” she answered honestly.  “He named you after the doctor who saved him.”

            “I don’t think that’s quite the same,” Sascha answered.  He made no move to get out of the car.  “I think,” he said, “and I don’t want to make things worse…but it might help me, anyway, and maybe it could help all of us…do you think he has a holo of her?”

            She looked at Sascha and suddenly she thought, he’s prickly and he’s an asshole because he doesn’t like how _much_ he feels.  And it all made sense, somehow, how much he was like who Papi must have been before he met Dad, who, despite the horror of what had happened to him, still managed to wear his heart on his sleeve.  She hoped that he would find someone.  He would make a good father, she thought, because children didn’t let you stay afraid to feel.

            “I think you should ask him, Sascha,” she said.  “I think that might make his finishing his story easier for all of us.”

            He unbuckled his belt and opened the door.  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you?” he asked, his hazel eyes still worried.

            She grinned.  “You’re going to be an uncle,” she told him, “in about seven months.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Jean-Luc argue over past hurts, which are only partially laid to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The meal served is authentic Catalan food, except for the dessert, which is from Parma, Italy.

 

14. 

 

 

            The sound of people downstairs roused him, and, for a moment, he simply couldn’t place where he was.  It was only a moment, though, because he heard Jean-Guy laugh, and then he heard Rose’s voice, and he realised that the siblings and their other guests must all have converged on the house at the same time.  Well, that was good, because the food would be quickly put away, and information about the venue shared, and perhaps Rose might reveal her pregnancy to her brothers.  In the meantime he had the luxury of waking up slowly, stretching his legs and moving his head back onto his own pillow.  He’d left one of the doors to the verandah open slightly, and he could hear the slow splatter of rain against the roof tiles and smell the sea.

            “Are you getting up?” Jean-Luc asked.

            “No,” he replied.  “Are you cold?  I can shut the door.”

            “You could come back here, and then I won’t be cold.”

            “I was just stretching,” he said, and turned back to Jean-Luc.  “You had a good sleep?”

            “I hadn’t meant to,” Jean-Luc said.

            “You hadn’t meant to sleep?”

            “Mmmh-hmm.”

            “I kept you up half the night,” Will reminded him.  “You were entitled to a rest.”

            “We both of us used to go days without sleeping,” Jean-Luc remarked.  “I don’t think you slept for months, after that first time with the Borg.”

            “You could also sleep on the bridge, standing up,” Will said, “in between phaser blasts.”

            Jean-Luc laughed.  “From the days when I had a much smaller crew,” he explained.

            “You know,” Will said, “if retirement is going to consist of lying around in bed with you in my arms, I think I could deal with it.”

            “Ha,” Jean-Luc said.  “I cannot imagine _you_ lying around in bed.”

            “I spent three months in bed, once,” Will said.

            “Not because you wanted to,” Jean-Luc answered. 

            “No, I suppose not.”

            “Are we going downstairs?”

            “Am I expected to cook for this crowd?” Will asked.

            “You’re the one who sent them for food,” Jean-Luc replied.

            “I bet Mr Locarno cooks.”

            “You leave poor Mr Locarno alone,” Jean-Luc said.

            Will quipped, “Are you trading me in for a younger model?”

            Jean-Luc was silent.  Then he said, and his voice was deceptively mild, “Is that what all this is about?”

            He’d heard that tone of voice before.  They didn’t quarrel often, but when they did, the first salvo was fired in that tone of voice.  He didn’t say anything; there was nothing, really, to say.  Instead, he sighed, not that it did any good.  Jean-Luc was watching him, waiting for him to answer.

            “It was a joke,” he protested.

            “Was it?”

            “We have a house full of people,” Will told him.

            “Half of whom are related to us, and are quite aware that neither one of us is a saint,” Jean-Luc said, and sat up.  “You – and do not, William, deny this – were going to use something that you know damned well has not happened in twenty-five years to deflect from the one issue we need to discuss.”

            “And what issue is that, Jean-Luc?” he asked tiredly, also sitting up.

            “Don’t you dare play the martyr with me,” Jean-Luc said.

            “I am not –“ He stopped.  It was too much, this.  He said, “It was just a dumb joke, Jean-Luc.  Please don’t make it to be more than that.”  He wanted to reach out and touch Jean-Luc’s arm, lightly, reassuringly – it really had been a joke, hadn’t it? – but Jean-Luc in this mood was quite capable of pushing him away.

            “Twenty-five years ago I made a very bad choice,” Jean-Luc said, and Will began, “Jean-Luc, please –“ before he closed his mouth and looked away.  “Look at me,” Jean-Luc said, and Will did, because that was what he always did.  “I nearly threw away everything we had, everything we worked so hard for.” 

            Will said, “Don’t.”

            “You, being who you are, forgave me and took me back,” Jean-Luc continued, “but you are not, William, going to conflate what is happening now with what happened then.  This is not my choice.”

            He said, desperately, “Jean-Luc, I never thought –“

            “I am not choosing to leave you, Will,” Jean-Luc said, gently.

            “I know that –“

            “I don’t think you do.”

            What was there to say? 

            “I know you’ve read the medical reports,” Jean-Luc said, “I’m not talking about your intellect. I am saying that, emotionally, I am abandoning you.  Just like your father.  Just like I almost did twenty-five years ago.  But I’m telling you, William, that it’s different this time.  I’m leaving you, but not because I want to.  And I’m sorry.  I know it’s hard for you, Will.  But you promised me once – look at me – you promised me once that you wouldn’t conflate your issues with me.  Do you remember?”

            “Yes,” Will said.

            “You chose to grow up, Will,” Jean-Luc said.  “And this is what happens, when we grow up.  I’m not choosing to die, Will.  I just am.  And you have to realise that your abandonment issues should either be dealt with or go back in your file cabinet.  Because I need you to be here for _me_.  And there are three people – no, five people – downstairs who are going to need you to be here for them.  And that’s the choice _you_ made, Will.  When you chose to grow up.”

            “I don’t want you to die,” Will said.

            “I know,” Jean-Luc answered.  “I don’t want to die either.  I don’t want to die this way.  And I don’t want to leave you.  Or our children.  Or our grandchildren.  But I am.  And we just have to deal with it.  _You_ have to deal with it.”

            “It’s stupid,” Will said, before he could stop himself.

            Jean-Luc laughed.  “Yes, I know,” he said.  “Your Jean-Guy told me exactly the same thing.”

            Will tried to smile.  “Oh, he’s _my_ Jean-Guy, now?”

            “Even with his philosophical shit,” Jean-Luc said.  “Why don’t you kiss me, and then go wash your face, and then let’s go downstairs and feed all those hungry people who are waiting for the chief cook to appear?”

            “All right, Jean-Luc,” Will agreed.

 

 

            They were all in the kitchen, drinking coffee (Sascha and Locarno) or wine (Grae and Jean-Guy); Rose seemed to be sipping water.  The back door was open, and a light breeze was blowing in, the rain pattering on the patio tiles and the birds singing.

            “Sir,” Locarno said, standing.  “The list was taken care of, and the food is stored.”

            “Thank you, Mr Locarno,” Will acknowledged quietly.  He still felt a little shaky. 

            “Do you want a glass of wine, Papi?” Sascha asked, also standing.  “Dad?”

            Will glanced around at everyone and then said, “Jean-Guy.  You cut your hair.”

            Jean-Guy shrugged.  “Mr Locarno thought my philosophical statement was stressing you out,” he said.  “So, yeah.”

            “I think it takes more than unkempt hair to stress me out,” Will said mildly.  “I don’t suppose you bought a new pair of trousers?”

            “That,” Locarno said, “was part of his philosophical statement.  He brought other clothes.”

            “Well,” Jean-Luc remarked.  “It seems you have been hoisted on your own petard, Jean-Guy.”

            Jean-Guy grinned, causing his older siblings to simultaneously roll their eyes.  “It worked, though,” he said. 

            “Indeed,” Jean-Luc agreed.  “Sascha, if you would pour me a glass of wine.  Why don’t we sit in the dayroom, and let our master chef have his kitchen.”

            “I’ll just have a cup of coffee,” Will said.  “Yes, all of you.  Out.”

            Rose said, “I’ll stay and help, Dad.”

            “That’s all right, Rosie,” Will said, gently.  “You go sit with Papi.  Grae can be my sous chef again, if he doesn’t mind.”  Then he said, “You are officially dismissed, Mr Locarno, unless you would care to stay for dinner.”

            “You should stay, Serge,” Jean-Guy said.  “You’re the one who picked out the fish.”

            “I’m not sure –“ Locarno began, but Sascha said, “The Admiral invited you to dinner, Ensign.”  “Then I’d love to,” Locarno replied.  “Why don’t you let me be sous chef instead?”

            Will glanced at Jean-Luc and said, “Your place is with the Ambassador, Mr Locarno – Serge, is it?  Go, all of you.  Graeme, if you don’t mind, I could use your surgical skills again.”

            It was sorted, then, and Will gave a small sigh of relief when they’d all taken their various drinks and left the room.  He went through the refrigerator, and quickly arranged a platter of olives and stuffed mushrooms and pickled eggplants for an appetiser, and sent Grae into the other room with it.  He took his cup of coffee and sipped it, standing at the door, looking out onto the garden.  It was hard to believe that it had only been this morning that he’d sat them down outside and told them about his Rosie.

            “Are you all right, sir?” Grae asked.

            Will shrugged.  “You’ve been with Rose how long now?” he asked.

            “Almost two years,” Grae answered.

            Will smiled.  “Two years,” he said.  “There’s a lot of stuff, Graeme, that happens, when you’ve been with the same person for thirty-five years.  Sometimes that stuff gets stirred up again.”  He turned away from the door.  “It will sort itself out.  It always does.”

            “Rose thought maybe you’d been arguing,” he said.

            He finished his coffee.  “You could hardly call it an argument,” he replied.  “Some things needed to be said.  And they were.  That’s all.  Certainly nothing to worry about.”

            “Rose,” Grae said, “is having a hard time sorting out the doctor from the daughter.”

            Will grinned.  “That’s okay.”  He placed his cup on the counter.  “Jean-Luc and I had a hard time sorting out our respective roles, too.”

            “Do you want another cup of coffee, sir?” Grae asked.

            “It’s Will,” he answered, “and no, I’d better not.  I understand Dr da Costa will be arriving tomorrow, and if he finds out I’m drinking caffeine, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

            “You’re not allowed to drink caffeine?” Grae seemed surprised.

            Will glanced at him as he took the fish out of the refrigerator.  “Hell, no,” he said.  “I’ve got an anxiety disorder.  I thought you were a doctor.”

            “I’m a surgeon,” Grae said.

            “That explains it,” Will said, laughing.  He handed Grae a vegetable knife.  “Chop away,” he said.

            It would be good, he thought, to welcome this young man into their family; he’d given him the onions, the garlic, the parsley, and the mint, and the young man deftly chopped or diced or minced, whatever he’d asked for.  They developed a solid rhythm, working together, saying little except what needed to be said in terms of prepping the food – dredging the fish in the flour and lightly browning them, preparing the green sauce; quartering the potatoes and rinsing the spinach, toasting the almonds and soaking the sultanas.

            He’d placed the sea bass, fileted and cut into steaks, lightly breaded, coated in the green sauce, into the baking dish and then into the oven.  He’d steamed the new potatoes and shown Graeme how to prepare their sauce of butter, parsley, and mint.  He’d wilted the spinach last, and then lightly sautéed it with the pine nuts, onion, garlic, and sultanas, and had sent Graeme for Jean-Guy to set the table.  The rain had stopped, and the air was cool and still smelling of the sea.

            “Where are we eating?” Jean-Guy asked, walking in.

            “It will have to be the dining room,” Will said.  “Dinner is ready.”

            “I’ll tell them,” Grae offered.

            “Ask Jean-Luc if he’ll pour the wine,” Will told him.

            “Yes, sir,” Grae answered, leaving the kitchen.

            Locarno appeared.  “I’ll pour the wine, sir,” he said.

            Will set the baking dish on the stove.  “Is he sundowning?” he asked quietly.

            Locarno thought for a moment and then he said, “He’s not really confused, sir.  He’s just fading, a little.”

            “He needs his medication,” Will said.  “If you could ask Rose to get it from our bedroom.  And then you sit with him.  I’ll have Sascha take care of the wine.”

            “You aren’t surprised,” Locarno said.

            “I’m surprised that I’m not confused,” Will answered.  “It has been a very long and very stressful day.”

            “Aye, sir,” Locarno said.

 

 

            Dinner was pleasant, Will thought.  Jean-Luc wasn’t really confused, only tired; he knew who everyone was; his answers were appropriate, if somewhat vague.  His appetite was still good, and he’d taken his medication; he was genuinely enjoying the attention of the kids, as he always had.

            Will permitted the kids, Sascha and Jean-Guy in particular, to clean up, because he’d noticed that Rose, too, seemed tired.  Locarno offered to make coffee or tea for everyone, but Will turned him down; he had the dessert, as simple as it was, to give the finishing touches to, and he knew Jean-Luc would want his tea prepared correctly.  In the coming days he’d show Locarno, but not tonight.

            He let Locarno help bring out the desserts, served in Jean-Luc’s godmother’s crystal wine glasses, much to the delight of everyone, and then Sascha and Jean-Guy brought in the coffee and tea. 

            “Daddy,” Rose said, really smiling, Will noticed, for the first time since he’d spoken to them in the morning, “thank you.  Grae, you’ll love this, it’s my favourite dessert.”

            “I thought your favourite dessert was _crema catalana_ ,” Will said, but he was grinning, because Sascha answered, “That’s _my_ favourite, not hers.”

            “They fight over dessert?” Grae asked, dipping his spoon into the mixture of wine-soaked strawberries and sorbet.

            “They fight over everything,” Jean-Luc answered.  “They always have.”

            “Except me,” Jean-Guy said.  “They are a united front, where I’m concerned.”  He didn’t sound particularly put out.

            “That’s because you are Papi’s little angel,” Rose told him, but she didn’t sound particularly put out either.

            Jean-Guy shrugged.  “So?” he said.  “Somebody had to protect me from you two.”

            “You never needed anyone to protect you,” Sascha protested.  “You got away with everything.”

            “How about the time when you and Rose tried to throw me out of an airlock?” Jean-Guy asked, smirking.  “Or when you left me in a Jefferies tube?  Or when you left me in engineering, and told me there was a warp core breach?”

            “There were fifty people in engineering,” Sascha said, “and not one of them was worried.”

            “Yeah?  I was five years old.  How was I supposed to know that?”

            Will said, “Welcome to the family, Graeme.”

            “I am the middle child of four,” Grae said, laughing, “and this all just sounds like home to me.”  He finished his dessert and said, “This was wonderful.  What was it?”

            “It’s Italian,” Will replied.  “Macedonia di frutta.  You can make it with any fruit, as long as it’s fresh.”

            There was a comfortable silence, as Will sipped his coffee – the last cup, he thought, sighing, depending on when da Costa showed up.  He could see Jean-Luc was tired, and he decided it was time to call it a night.

            “You told Jean-Guy you were going to throw him out an airlock?” Jean-Luc said, suddenly, looking at Sascha.

            Sascha said, “It was Rose, really –“

            “You’re the one who put him in the box,” Rose said.

            This time the silence was almost comical.

            “You put my son in a box and told him you were going to dump him out an airlock?” Jean-Luc repeated.

            “It was a long time ago, Papi,” Sascha said.  “We wouldn’t have done it.  We didn’t do it.”

            “I might have done it,” Rose confessed, “but Sascha chickened out.”

            “And you wondered, Serge, why I have philosophical statements to make,” Jean-Guy said.

           

 

 

            “Will.”

            The clouds had cleared and he could see the stars.  He wondered where the _Titan_ was.  He’d continued to use the _Titan_ as his ship after he’d been promoted, and then again when he was Admiral of the Fleet, for those few years.  Now the _Titan_ was somewhere out there in the Gamma quadrant without him.  Most of the time, he didn’t think about it.  Most of the time he was busy, working on the special projects Starfleet passed his way; working in his studio.  He thought about his music, untouched this past week, and the work he still needed to do on it, and then he thought about the frantic emails from his students, who were convinced he wasn’t returning.

            “Will?”

            What would happen, he thought, if he just stood here, and pretended he hadn’t heard?  And then he laughed, because McBride was not around to prescribe _him_ respite care.    

            “There you are,” Jean-Luc said.  He was standing at the side of the bed with his pyjamas on, but his shirt was open.  “I know you are still upset with me, Will, but for some reason I can’t seem to – “

            “It’s all right, Jean-Luc,” Will said, walking over.  Gently he buttoned Jean-Luc’s shirt.  “If you start at the bottom one, Jean-Luc,” he said, “like this, and then move up, one at a time….”

            “I remember you teaching Sascha that way,” Jean-Luc said, and he smiled, briefly.  “I can remember how to do it but I just can’t get my fingers to work that way.”

            “We will replicate you shirts with a velseam,” Will said, “and then there won’t be any problem at all.”

            “I suppose that will have to do,” Jean-Luc agreed.

            “You are tired,” Will told him.  “You’ll feel better in the morning.  Are you finished in the head?”

            “What?” Jean-Luc asked, and then he said, “Yes.  I think so.  I took a piss, if that’s what you’re asking.  And I believe I brushed my teeth.”

            Will took a breath, and then he said, “Let me help you into bed, then.”

            “All right.”

            He pulled down the quilt and the linens, and helped Jean-Luc lay down.

            “We’ve come full circle, Guy,” Jean-Luc said, as Will placed the quilt over him.

            “Oh? How is that?”  He walked into the head, and turned the shower on.

            “Now you’re the one giving the tuck-in service,” Jean-Luc replied.

            Will turned the shower off, and walked back into the bedroom.  “And I’m doing it with far less grace than you ever did,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.  “I’m sorry, Jean-Luc.”

            “It’s my fault,” Jean-Luc answered.  “I upset you, earlier.  I’m the one who is sorry, Will.”

            “I know you are, Jeannot,” Will said, understanding that the apology was for the original hurt, and not the evening’s upset.

            “You should take your shower.”  Jean-Luc closed his eyes.

            “You said,” Will began, hesitantly, “that you thought the kids should know about us.  That it was part of telling them about me, and about what happened.”

            “Yes,” Jean-Luc answered.  “You will need to finish telling them, Will.  You’ve only told about Rosie.  You need to tell them about your father.  Why it’s important that they should know.”

            “There’s too much to tell,” Will said. 

            “I know.  Come to bed, Will.  We can talk about it in the morning, providing I remember who you are.”

            Will smiled.  “You remembered me this morning,” he said.

            “Surprisingly.”

            “I’ll come to bed.”

            “ _Bien_.”

            Will stood up, and returned to the head.  He stripped down and took a quick sonic shower instead of his usual water one, and then put his pyjamas on and slipped into his side of the bed.

            “Lights, ten percent,” he said.  He turned to Jean-Luc and kissed his cheek.  “Are you still awake?” he asked.

            “Yes,” Jean-Luc answered.  “Have you forgiven me yet?”

            “I forgave you a long time ago.”

            “You have always been my sweet boy, Will,” Jean-Luc said.

            “Did you know that Data made a recording of our wedding?” Will asked, pulling Jean-Luc close.

            “What on earth for?” Jean-Luc asked sleepily.

            “So we could show it to our kids,” Will answered, “or at least that’s what he told me at the time.”

            “How did he know we would have children?” Jean-Luc asked, looking up at Will.

            “I’m sure,” Will replied, “knowing him, he thought it was the only logical conclusion.  Good night, Jeannot,” he murmured, even as he knew Jean-Luc had already fallen asleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will can't sleep, and has an important discussion with Sascha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is an AU, but I was seriously contemplating allowing Robert and Rene freedom from having been fridged in Generations. Somehow I ended up being complicit in their deaths again.

15. 

 

 

            There were no nightmares; no issues with his aging prostate; Jean-Luc slept soundly, barely moving.  The house was, despite the seeming cast of thousands (And how long had it been since they’d had a full house?  Years, it felt.), completely quiet, so that he heard the patter of the rain as it started again and the sound of two cats, fighting.  On spring nights in the woods of his youth there would be snowy owls calling and foxes barking; wolves howling and the huffing of a bear as it trundled past.  He didn’t necessarily want to inhabit those woods this late at night, even for the memories of the sounds they made, and so he slid over to his own side of the bed and sat up.  He glanced back at Jean-Luc to make sure he hadn’t disturbed him, but it seemed that the medication at last was kicking in; Jean-Luc was snoring, softly, and Will grinned.  Jean-Luc would be horrified that he’d been snoring.

            He placed his bare feet on the cool wood floor and stood up, stretching.  The chronometer said it was nearing zero-three hundred; he sighed, because Jean-Luc would wake just before dawn, as he always did, and that was barely two hours away.  Still, lying in bed and tossing and turning would disturb Jean-Luc as well, so Will stood up, and stretched again, and walked into the head for his robe.  Wrapping it around himself, he headed down the stairs, trying to be quiet as he passed by the boys’ rooms.  In the kitchen he replicated himself a glass of water, which he sipped at the back door as he watched the rain splatter lightly on the patio tiles and furniture.  He finished his water and tossed it in the receptacle, and then tried to figure out what he should do.  There was work, as always, which he’d completely neglected and which at this point he probably owed some sort of an explanation to HQ; he could probably work quietly in his office, at least emptying his inbox, without disturbing anyone. 

            He sighed.  The truth was, his mind was spinning, never a good place for it to be, worried about Jean-Luc, and now worried about Rose, not just with her pregnancy but with how she was handling what he’d told her; worried about the damned party, because he didn’t know who was coming, and he didn’t know the dress code, and if he was supposed to wear his dress whites, as he wasn’t even sure he could fit into them, and they certainly weren’t pressed.  And then what was Jean-Luc supposed to wear, and why would this be at night, when Jean-Luc got so tired so early….

            Fuck it, he thought.  It was too bad it was raining, because a long walk would shut his mind off, but he didn’t feel like looking for his raincoat, an activity which was sure to wake one of the boys.  So he shut the lights in the kitchen and walked quietly down the hall into his music room, turning the lights on at thirty percent, and then closing the door.

            Someone had been in here, he noticed, glancing at the piano, and had been through his score, which meant it could only be Jean-Guy.  Probably looking for some place to practise.  He wasn’t ready for anyone to look at this yet, and he wondered what his son had thought of it, as unfinished as it was.  Well, it was a little bit unfinished; he had to work on that one section, with the woodwinds, and then he’d decided he wanted to remove that one echo of the motif in the horns.  Keeping the score in his hands, he walked around and sat at his desk, frowning at the stale coffee he’d left there, days ago, it seemed.  He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, setting the score down.  Deanna would have told him to do a grounding exercise, a habit he’d been remiss in of late.  He could hear her voice in his head, reminding him how to breathe, going over the imagery of a grounding exercise, that one where he sent roots down into the ground and stabilised himself.  He missed her.  He missed himself, sometimes.  Perhaps Jean-Luc had been right, in saying that he should go back to space, but who the hell would want an aging Admiral to interfere with them?  He certainly remembered how he’d felt about most Admirals; dull and stupid and incompetent, not able to see past the regs or their own noses.  He’d stay here before he’d ever give cause for someone to think that of him.

            He should boot up his padd and at least look at his inbox.  Maybe try to calm his students down, that he’d be in next week, after all the nonsense about the party had passed.  And then he could feel his anxiety pooling in his gut, because he couldn’t for the life of him understand how Jean-Luc had made the leap from a silly remark about Mr Locarno to what Will had always thought of as The Incident.  Which was stupid, because of course it had been far more than just an incident; it had been a series of events that had hit him like a quantum filament.  Jean-Luc was usually right – had he really so trivialised Jean-Luc’s illness into just one more facet of his abandonment issues?  Was he really that selfish?

            “Dad,” Sascha said.  “Staying up all night and worrying is not going to help anyone.”

            “Did I wake you?” he asked.

            “No,” Sascha answered.  “I don’t usually drink coffee this late.”

            “Really?  I think I lived on coffee when I was your age.”

            “Everything’s under control, you know,” Sascha said.  He walked in, and moved some discs off one of the chairs and sat down.  “With the party, I mean.  And I wanted Rose to tell you – she just had this idea in her head, about you and Papi seeing everyone.”

            “Is it?” he said.  “That’s good.  Do I know what I’m wearing yet?  Because I’m not sure I can fit into my dress whites.”

            “We’ll sort it out tomorrow, Dad.  It will be okay.  The venue is great.”

            “Where is it?” he asked.

            “Les Fonts.”

            “How did you manage that?” he asked.

            “There are some people who thought you and Papi deserved it,” he answered.  “We’ll make sure Papi’s clothes are taken care of, too.”

            “He won’t wear a uniform,” Will said.

            “He might, for Rose,” Sascha answered.

            “Is Rose ever going to officially tell us?”

            Sascha blinked.  “You know?” he said, finally.

            “Son,” Will said.  “Neither one of us was born yesterday.”

            “She didn’t want to be in the spotlight,” Sascha explained.  “It’s your anniversary.”

            “Perhaps Papi and I would like to be able to share our news with our friends,” Will pointed out.

            Sascha shrugged.  “You’d better talk to her, then,” he replied.  “I’m surprised she told me.”

            “You should go back to bed,” Will told him.

            “What were you and Papi arguing about?” Sascha asked.

"We weren't arguing."

            “Dad.  I wasn’t born yesterday, either.”

            “Just stuff, Sascha,” Will answered.  “Old stuff.  It wasn’t really a big deal.”

            Sascha was silent for a moment, and then he said, “I remember it, you know.”

            “You remember what?” Will’s voice was low.

            “When Papi left,” Sascha said.

            “Your father never –“

            “Dad,” Sascha said, patiently.  “I’m almost thirty years old.  He left us.  Maybe not for a long time, but he left.  And I remember.  Rose was only a baby, but I remember.”

            “You were a baby, too,” Will said.

            “I thought,” Sascha said, “that it was my fault.  Or Rose’s.”

            Will looked at his son.  He remembered holding him on his lap and reading to him.  He remembered the way he smelled, soft and clean; the way his hand would curl inside his, when they walked; the way he would hop down the corridors of the _Titan_ , first on one foot, and then on the other.

            Why was it, he thought, that kids always thought it was their fault, anyway?  Hadn’t he spent his life thinking his father’s monstrosity was his fault?

            “We never wanted that,” Will said.  “It wasn’t about either one of you, even if you felt it was.  It was between your father and me.  It was about my issues – and about his – and our issues – mine and his – have never been about you kids.  Ever.”

            “It felt,” Sascha said, “like he was gone forever.”

            “I know,” Will agreed.  “I knew you missed him – but he was away a lot.”

            “Not like that,” Sascha said.

            “No.  Not like that.”

            “Rose told me the doctor thinks the illness is progressing faster than we’d thought.”

            “Yes.”

            “And you were fighting about him leaving.”

            Will said, “We were _not_ fighting.  I know you’re an adult, Sascha.  And I know you have a major decision to make.  But there are some things that are still private, between Papi and me.  This is one of them.”

            “If I accept this job,” Sascha said.  “I’ll be gone.  And I won’t necessarily see Papi again.  And I don’t know – “ He stopped.

            Will stood up.  Jean-Luc had been right.  There were six other people who needed him – relied on him.  He’d been the captain before.  He could be the captain, again.  He walked over to his son, and put his hand on Sascha’s shoulder, and, when Sascha didn’t resist, pulled him close.

            “I know it’s tough,” he said.  “I can’t help you with this decision, Alexandré, because it has to be yours.  You’re the only one who can make it.  Your father always felt bad, that he hadn’t reconciled with his father.  That he hadn’t been home, for his mother.  That he wasn’t able to save Robert, or René.  But in order to do all those things, Papi would have had to have given up space.  He couldn’t have done that, Sascha.  That’s not who he was.”  He paused, and then he said, “You have to decide who you are.  The Academy wants you to be on staff.  Permanently.  They are preparing to offer you a permanent position.  Which would be a great honour,” Will said, looking at his son.  “But Captain Diako is offering you First Officer of the _McClendon_ – it’s a good ship.  With a good crew.  And Papi would be the last person to want you to give up space for him.”

            “Is that what I’d be doing?” Sascha asked.  “Giving up space, if I took the Academy position?”

            “No,” Will said.  “You’re young, Sascha.  You have your whole career ahead of you – and there will be other ships.  You have to decide what’s right for you, though.  Not what’s right for Papi.  Not what’s right for me.”

            “I know,” Sascha said, pulling away.  “I knew this was coming.  I just thought I had more time.”

            “We all thought that.” Will stepped back.  It had been a stupid idea, this party, but if it ended that chasm that had built up between himself and his son – well, he’d sign up for all of Rose’s stupid ideas from now on.

            “I like Grae,” Sascha said.  “And I’m glad Ensign Locarno is here.  Will he be enough, though?”

            “I’ve an appointment with Commander Steen next week,” Will said.  “We’ll need at least one more person, for the night shift.  And a medical crewman, and a nurse – but not yet.”

            “I wouldn’t have let Rose throw Jean-Guy out of an airlock,” Sascha said, standing, “as tempting as it was.”

            Will laughed.  “One of these days,” he answered, “I’ll tell you about my cousin Dmitri.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean-Luc has a fall, and Will finishes his conversation with Sascha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Affect management -- learning to name what one is feeling -- is an important part of Cognitive Behaviour Therapy, used in the treatment of PTSD.

 

16. 

 

 

            There was, Will thought, a sixth sense that a captain developed over time, when he could tell by the way the air felt around him that something was wrong.  He was up and hitting the floor before he was even truly awake, and it was only four or five strides, it seemed, to the head, where he found Jean-Luc on the floor, somehow wedged between the sink and the toilet.  Will assessed him quickly, noting that he was conscious and his pulse was strong, if a little rapid, and his breathing was just a little laboured.

            “We have two doctors in this house,” he told Jean-Luc, “so I’m not going to try to move you without getting at least Rose in here.  How much pain are you in?”

            “I’m just stuck,” Jean-Luc answered, “and don’t ask me how this happened, because I’m quite sure I don’t know.  I was washing my face and then somehow I was here.”

            “But you’re not in pain?” Will asked in disbelief.  Jean-Luc glared at him, causing Will to suppress a smile.  “Okay.  Let me get Rose and Grae, and then we’ll get you up.”

            “We don’t need – “ Jean-Luc began.

            “We certainly do,” Will replied, standing.  “Don’t try to move.  Give me two minutes.”

            He didn’t necessarily want to leave Jean-Luc alone for thirty seconds, let along two minutes, and it occurred to him, as he hurried to Rose’s bedroom, that perhaps setting up communication in the house was now a necessity, rather than a luxury they’d chosen to ignore.  He knocked on Rose’s door and said, “Rose, are you awake?  Papi’s fallen in the head.  Rose?”  He opened the door.

            “What is it, Dad? Lights, thirty percent,” Rose said.

            “Papi’s fallen in the head, and I need you and Graeme.”

            “Okay.  Let me get my tricorder.”

            He heard her feet it the floor, and then he heard Grae say, “What else do you need, Rose?”

            “I’ve got my med kit,” she answered.  “Let me get my robe, Dad.”

            “I’m going back to him,” Will said.  “I had to leave him alone.”

            “We’ll be right there.”

            He walked back to the bedroom, and then into the head, where he knelt on the floor.  “You’ve had an exciting week,” he said.  “First you get lost and now this.”

            “Your use of humour is not appreciated, William.”

            “You are in pain,” Will stated.  “Tell me where.”

            “My pride is what’s hurt, damn you,” Jean-Luc said.

            “I know.”  He took Jean-Luc’s hand. 

            “Dad, let me check his vitals, and then we’ll see about moving him.” Rose stood in the doorway, tricorder in hand.

            He got up off the floor, and walked out of the head, allowing Rose to take his place.

            “What happened, Papi?” Rose asked, scanning him with the tricorder.

            “I fell,” Jean-Luc said.

            Will turned away, because he had a sudden desire to laugh; it wasn’t appropriate at all, and he wasn’t laughing at Jean-Luc’s falling, which wasn’t funny – it was the look on Jean-Luc’s face, as if he were sure their middle child had just gone stupid or something.  Will took a breath, to calm himself down.  If Jean-Luc were injured in any way, he thought, he’d cancel tomorrow night.

            “You seem to have had a drop in blood pressure,” Rose said.  “You probably lost consciousness for a minute or so, which is when you fell.  As far as I can tell, there are no fractures.  You’re going to be sore, though.  Let’s get Dad and Grae to help you up.”

            “Let me go in first,” Grae said.  “I’m smaller, and I should be able to slide him out more easily than you, Admiral.  Then we can lift him together.”

            “I can lift him quite easily by myself, Grae.  I’m sure he would prefer that.”

            Jean-Luc said, sharply, “Stop talking about me as if I’m not right in front of you.  I’m not an invalid yet.  Just get me out of this.”

            “Yes, sir,” Grae said, gently.  “It’s all right.  I know you’re frustrated.”

            Will watched anxiously as Grae deftly wrapped his arms around Jean-Luc from behind him, and then slowly slid him forward, taking care not to bang Jean-Luc’s head on either the toilet or the floor. 

            “Okay, old man,” Will said, smiling, looking directly into Jean-Luc’s eyes.  “You’re not going to fuss at me, all right?” He waited, patiently, for Jean-Luc to acknowledge him.

            “Just do it, damn you,” Jean-Luc said.

            “Aye, sir,” Will returned, grinning, and as Grae lifted Jean-Luc up from behind, Will reached down and picked him up, cradling Jean-Luc in his arms.  “Back to bed for you, sir,” he said, and before Jean-Luc could complain, he’d deposited him on the bed and wrapped the quilt around him.  “Your tuck-in service, Captain,” he said, still smiling, pretending that Jean-Luc’s eyes weren’t suddenly filling with tears.  “Can you give him something for the bruising and the pain, Rose?” he asked.

            “Yes,” Rose answered. “I came prepared.  All this is, Papi,” she said, “is something to help with the swelling and the pain.”  She gave him the hypo spray, and then kissed him lightly on the forehead.  “You need fluids and something to eat, Papi,” she told him.

            “Is that why he had the loss in blood pressure?” Will asked.

            “It could have been, yes.  You need a replicator in here, Dad.”

            Will sighed.  “We need to remodel the whole villa,” he said.  “Time to add the _D_ ’s computer, Jean-Luc.”

            “Good luck with that,” Jean-Luc said.  “I’d prefer to be sitting up, if you don’t mind.”

            “Writing the book on cranky today, Mr Picard,” Will said, laughing, but he was careful as he helped Jean-Luc sit up.  “Feeling better?” he asked, gently.  “Ready for your tea?”

            “Yes, and yes,” Jean-Luc answered.  His gaze was steady now. 

            “What about you, Rosie?” Will stood up, allowing his hand to linger on Jean-Luc’s shoulder.  “How are you feeling this morning?”

            To his surprise, Rose blushed.  “You know, don’t you?” she said.

            “As I told Sascha last night, neither one of us was born yesterday.  Papi knew right away, and he told me.”  He took her in his arms and held her tightly.  “We couldn’t be more proud,” he said.  “At some point,” he added, fixing Grae with his trademark icy stare, “we’ll need to have a chat about your intentions towards our daughter.”  He waited for Grae’s surprised reaction and then he said, grinning, “But not now.  Papi needs his tea and something to eat.  I’ll leave that up to the two of you.  I’m staying here.”

            “Yes, sir,” Grae said smartly, and Rose poked at him.  “Don’t be cheeky to my Dad,” she said, laughing. “We’ll be right back with your breakfast,” she promised.

            “I’m not hungry,” Jean-Luc said irritably, but it was too late, as both Rose and Graeme had already left the room.

            “You’re warm enough?” Will asked.  “Can I check you, for bruises?”  Jean-Luc’s skin was so thin, he thought, that it could still be possible he was bleeding somewhere.

            “Yes, I am warm enough, and no, you may not.”

            Will sighed.  He said, “If I pee, will you promise just to stay in the damned bed, then?”

            In response, Jean-Luc closed his eyes.  Will stood there, watching him.  “You know,” he said, “it took 1,014 people to take care of you before, and it looks like we’re going to need that number again.”

            “To paraphrase one of your favourite sayings,” Jean-Luc said, his eyes still closed, “fuck you.”

            Will was silent and then he said, “Remember our little talk in the kitchen the other day, Jean-Luc?  You’re still an asshole.”

            He turned around and walked into the head, where he took his time with his toiletries, thinking he had a point to make, regardless of how childish it seemed.  He’d finished brushing what was left of his hair when he heard Jean-Luc say, 

            “Are they harvesting the tea leaves, do you think?  Or are they merely waiting for them to grow?”

            “I hope they used the replicator,” Will said, coming out of the head.  “I’m getting dressed.”

            “Good for you.”

            Will stopped.  He took a breath, because he needed the time to identify what he was feeling by its proper name, and then he took another breath.  He was angry (not mad), he thought, but he knew from long experience that there was always something underneath the anger.  Clearly Jean-Luc was angry, too – but not at him, surely? 

            He took the few steps to the bed.  “Why don’t you move over a little, so I can sit down?” he asked, lowering his voice, hoping that he no longer sounded irritable.

            “I thought you were getting dressed.”

            “Scoot over,” Will said, sitting on the edge of the bed.  “Just a little, Jean-Luc.”  He nudged him, and said, “I remember when you wanted to sit next to me and I wouldn’t let you.”  He paused, and when Jean-Luc said nothing, he added, “You sat next to me anyway, and you took me in your arms like this –“ he slid one arm underneath Jean-Luc and then pulled him close “—and you just held me, until I could tell you what was wrong, or what I needed.”

            “All I need is a cup of tea,” Jean-Luc said.

            Will kissed him.  “We’re going to have to take turns, I think,” he said, “being angry and afraid, because when we’re both angry and afraid, it’s pretty ugly.”

            “You think this experience won’t be ugly, Will?” Jean-Luc opened his eyes.

            “I don’t think we have to go out of our way to make it more ugly,” Will said.

            “Is that what we’re doing?”

            “I think that I’d just like to hold you,” Will said.  “You can talk to me about what just happened or not.  But I’m grateful you’re not hurt more than you were.”

            “I wasn’t hurt at all,” Jean-Luc said.  “Just stuck.”

            “And scared,” Will added.  “And embarrassed.”

            “Humiliated,” Jean-Luc said, closing his eyes again.

            “Yes.  I remember.”

            They were silent, and Will kissed Jean-Luc on the forehead.  “You can be bitchy to me all you want,” he said, finally.  “I’ll grow thicker skin.”

            “You’ll have to.”

            Will grinned.  “I love you.”

            “Sometimes,” Jean-Luc answered, “I wonder why.”

            “Because,” Will said, “you made me manually dock the saucer section.  Here’s Sascha, with your tea.”

 

 

            When Locarno came, he sent the young man upstairs to sit with Jean-Luc, who’d had his tea and his breakfast and then who’d announced he was going back to sleep.

            “He can’t sleep alone anymore,” Will said.  “So if you need to be relieved, for any reason, you need to call down.  And I need to contact the office to have a communications array set up.”

            “Yes, sir,” Locarno said.  “I won’t leave him alone, sir.”

            “Good.  We’ve had enough excitement for one week, and I’m almost ready to call tomorrow off.”

            “The Ambassador will be disappointed if you do, sir,” Locarno said.

            “Oh, he will, will he?”

            “He talks about it,” Locarno continued.  “He’s looking forward to seeing old friends.”

            “Then he needs to behave himself,” Will remarked. 

            “Yes, sir,” Locarno said.

            Will glanced at him, to make sure he wasn’t being cheeky, the way da Costa had been, but he was merely responding.  “Are you sure you’re not Portuguese?” he asked.

            Locarno said, surprised, “I’m positive, sir.  My family was Swiss, I think.”

            “Even so,” Will answered.  “Why couldn’t they have found a straight-forward Alaskan?”

            Locarno was silent.  “Perhaps because there are none to be found,” he said.

            “Now I know why Steen gave you this job.”  Will was using his poker face.

            “Sir?”

            “Because you’re too smart by half, which – in Commander Steen’s world – means finding a job for you for which you’re overqualified.”

            “I like to think of it as networking, sir,” Locarno replied.  “Permission to be dismissed, sir?”

            “Permission granted.”

            Will went outside with a towel and dried off the patio furniture, and then he walked down to the pond to feed the fish.  They were hungry, and caused a commotion when they saw him, pounding the water and otherwise complaining about his neglect of them.  He grabbed the fish food from the shed and tossed it in, enjoying the orange and white streaks as they surfaced and fought over the granules.

            Sascha walked down the path and stood beside him, watching.  “Jean-Guy tells me you’ve written a symphony.”

            “Jean-Guy should mind his own business,” Will said.  “I wasn’t ready to show it to anyone.  It’s not finished.”

            “He talks about it like you’re Mozart or something.”

            Will rolled his eyes.  “He’s very young.  If I could write one piece that would put me second tier to Ellington, or Monk, or Belthon, I’d be satisfied.”

            “You have more to tell us, I think,” Sascha said quietly.

            Will finished feeding the fish, and put the food back on its shelf in the shed.  “We’ll have a good crop of oranges and lemons this year.”

            “You told us about your friend,” Sascha continued, “but there was no context to it.”

            “Alexandré,” Will said.  “I’ve had a hell of a week.  I know that Papi wants me to lay everything out before you, so that you understand me, and us, and the risks you – particularly Rose – may or may not be taking.  But –“ 

            “Dad?”

            Will sighed.  “I don’t want to.”

            “It must be hard –“

            “Spare me your platitudes.” Will turned away, and began walking back towards the house.

            Sascha grabbed his arm.  “Dad.  Please.”

            Will stopped, but he didn’t turn around.  “You don’t understand,” he said.  “It’s started already.  I’ve seen how you look at me, now.  You won’t see me as your father anymore.  You’ll see me as something damaged.  Broken.”  He said, struggling, “You’ll see me as the little boy I was.”

            Sascha said, “I’m not Rose, Dad.  I can’t throw my arms around you and hold you until you’re smiling again.  I never did have that knack, like you and Rose.  To be able to be affectionate the way you two are.  And after yesterday, that you’ve been able to be affectionate…it hasn’t made me see you the way you think.  It hasn’t, Dad.  I promise you it hasn’t.  I think – I think we’ll never understand how brave you are.  How strong you are.  And how lucky we are – all four of us – Papi too.”

            “Papi was afraid to be affectionate, because he felt so deeply.  He was afraid he would lose himself; that he would lose himself in what he loved.”  Will paused, and then he said, “I don’t have the words that you and Papi have.  The lack of words – the inability to understand and name what I’m feeling – that’s part of the illness I’ve been treated for, for all these years.  Your father – he loved us so much he was afraid.  I don’t know how else to explain it.  He was afraid that in wanting us so badly he would lose us.  It’s why he went away.  It’s easier, Sascha, when it’s just sex.  I’m sure you’ve already found that out.”

            “Yes,” Sascha agreed.  “I guess I have.”

            “You’ll be a good first officer, if that’s what you decide you want.”

            “Do you think so?”

            Will glanced at his son.  He looked so young, so eager.  “Yes,” he said.  “I do.”

            “Will you tell us?” Sascha asked.  “Dad?”

            “I don’t know that I have the words,” Will said.  “I don’t even know where to begin.”

            “Will you let us help you?”

            “Papi wanted you to know about us,” Will said. “You could get your sister and brother.  We can sit on the verandah, in the front.  It’s warm, but you should be able to watch it with no problems there.  And maybe one of you should go see if Papi’s awake.”

            “Okay.”  Sascha let go of Will’s arm, and started to walk towards the back door.  “Watch what, Dad?”

            “A piece of family history,” Will said, “that an old friend of ours made.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last. The Riker/Picard wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jean-Luc proposed to Will first at the height of Will's illness in A Million Sherds, just after Will had asked Jean-Luc to end his treatment so he could die with dignity. The second proposal -- complete with a ring -- occurs in The St Valentine's Day Massacre, which started out as just a silly story for the holiday, until Jean-Luc surprised me by making good on his promise in A Million Sherds.
> 
> Cochrane Day was established on April 17 by my dear eimeo in her wonderful novel Spice. If you haven't read Spice, pop over to TOS and read it. It was completed earlier this fall. It seemed fitting that these two should choose this day for their wedding.
> 
> The wedding music is as follows: Guest processional, The Lark, Ascending, by Ralph Vaughan Williams. Usher/Best Man/Groom Processional, The Trumpet Voluntary, The Prince of Denmark March, by Jeremiah Clarke.  
> Groom and Sabre Ceremony Recessional: Eternal Father, Strong To Save, the United States Naval Hymn, Traditional. 
> 
> The Sabre Ceremony is performed per regulations for the United States Navy. Since Gene Roddenberry based Starfleet traditions of The Royal Navy and the US Navy, it seemed only fitting that Starfleet should have incorporated as its own the most thrilling and emotional of ceremonies when a service member weds. The commands that Data uses are correct. It is traditional that the last pair holding the sabres refuse to allow the couple to pass until the couple kisses. (It's also traditional to pat the bride on her tuchis, but even da Costa wasn't brave enough to keep that tradition.)

17.

 

 

            He hadn’t, he thought, seen Jean-Luc in maybe two days, except on the bridge, and even then Jean-Luc didn’t really spend any time on the bridge – what was he needed there for?  The science mission was completed, and they were now in orbit around Betazed,  something the _Enterprise_ – if she were still sentient – could do in her sleep, ensign at the helm or not.  He couldn’t remember whether they’d eaten dinner together, and he knew at some point they’d shared their bed, but spend more than five minutes in passing with the man who was supposedly his fiancé?  Yeah, that hadn’t happened.  In fact, he thought, walking onto the turbo lift to head back to their quarters, the last time they’d spent actually _with_ each other had been in their last session with Deanna over what had happened to Jean-Luc and his brothers. 

            “Deck eight,” he said.

            He remembered the almost-catastrophe that had been Miles and Keiko’s wedding, when Keiko had inexplicably called the ceremony off, and he thought he understood, now.  Supposedly you were marrying that one special person so that you could be together, and yet the act of marrying that person did nothing but separate you and keep you apart.  It didn’t make any sense, and yet that was what he was experiencing.  It’s no wonder Keiko had called it off – she probably hadn’t seen Miles in days either, couldn’t remember what he looked like, or why she was even bothering with all of this – this _schmattes_ , Tzippi Cardozo provided in his head.

            He walked down the corridor, empty because shift change was over and everyone who was on beta shift was already on, and everyone who’d been on alpha shift was already home or in Ten Forward or at the gym or wherever.  He was supposed to be getting dressed for some stupid formal dinner that Deanna and Beverly had insisted that they have.  He opened the doors to their quarters and stepped in, setting the lights to forty percent.  He didn’t want to have a formal dinner with everyone.  He already _knew_ everyone.  So what was the point?  Unless, he thought, the point was to keep him from having any private time at all with Jean-Luc.  In that case, he thought sourly, it was succeeding all too well.

            Jean-Luc was not in the bedroom.  He sighed, and turned the lights on, and went into the head to take his shower.  He wondered, washing himself, if there were any chance at all that he and Jean-Luc might actually have sex in the near future, or if that was something they had to wait for until their honeymoon.  Even the language, he thought, of getting married was ridiculous.  He stepped out of the shower, toweling himself off, and then began trimming his beard.

            “Will?”

            He heard Jean-Luc enter the bedroom, and he turned off the depilatory.  “In here,” he answered.

            Jean-Luc appeared in the doorway.  “Have you decided on a Betazoid wedding after all?” he asked.

            “Who are you?” he asked.  “And why are you in my bedroom?”

            “I thought this was _my_ bedroom.”

            “Are you sure?” Will asked.  “Do we know each other?”

            “We could get to know each other,” Jean-Luc offered. 

            Jean-Luc was laughing, and Will thought he might like to hit him, except that his erection was bobbing up and down and it was all too ridiculous, and Jean-Luc was stripping out of his clothes – and two showers in five minutes had never killed anyone.

           

           

            “Why,” Will complained, “do we have to wear our dress whites to this too?”

            They were walking to the turbo lift, and despite the fact that anyone could have appeared at any minute, Jean-Luc was holding his hand.  It was a great feeling, Will thought, having that dry warmth in his own.  Two weeks ago, before they’d had those sessions with Deanna, Jean-Luc would barely touch him when they were in uniform, and now they were just like any of the other couples he’d seen in his years on the _Enterprise_.  Maybe this was why the preparations had kept them apart.

            “It’s certainly good that we made sure to have two uniforms,” Jean-Luc said.  “Ten Forward,” he told the computer.  “I’d hate to have to worry about spilling something.”

            “I’ve never seen you spill anything, ever,” Will said.  “Me, on the other hand….”

            “Full stop,” Jean-Luc said.  “Will.”

            “Yes?” All of a sudden he could feel anxiety pooling in his gut.

            “You’re doing all right, with all of this?  You’re not anxious?  I haven’t seen much of you.”

            “Aside from the fact, Jean-Luc,” Will said, “that you just scared the shit out of me right now, I’m okay.  Surprisingly.”

            “You’re sure?” To Will’s now-practised eyes, Jean-Luc looked anxious himself.

            “Are you having cold feet, sir?” Will asked.  “You’re not going to pull a Keiko on me, are you?  That _would_ make me anxious.”

            “I am _not_ having cold feet,” Jean-Luc said, “and I wish you would stop calling me _sir_.”

            “Used to be you’d put me on report for not calling you _sir_ ,” Will said.  “Sir.”

            Jean-Luc said, “I am sorry I asked.  You are a cheeky bugger, you know.”

            “Ten Forward,” Will said.  The turbo lift started again, and he added, “I was feeling frustrated – not _mad_ – because I haven’t seen much of you.”

            “Yes, it’s as if our not seeing each other was part of the process,” Jean-Luc agreed.

            “Deanna told me that it used to be the custom that the couple wasn’t permitted to see each other, before the wedding.”  He didn’t add that she’d actually said the groom wasn’t supposed to see the bride, because Jean-Luc was quite capable of knocking him down.

            Jean-Luc eyed him suspiciously, almost as if he knew what hadn’t been said, and Will looked at the doors.

            “Are you being cheeky again, Mr Riker?”

            “No, sir,” Will said.  “I was just agreeing with you.”

            “Indeed.”  The doors to the turbo lift opened.

 

 

 

            This was not the first time that Will wondered if the McBride cure hadn’t fixed all of his brain damage, because it became immediately apparent, upon walking into Ten Forward, that both Deanna and Beverly had been right, in insisting on having a “rehearsal” dinner with everyone he already knew.  The answer to why it was important was, he realised, _family_ , a concept so new to him that that could only be the justification for why he didn’t understand.

            He had a family.  He felt himself tear up, suddenly, and then Jean-Luc did what he always did, which was instantly _know_ him, know how he was feeling; Jean-Luc stepped so close to him that they were touching, hip to hip almost, and then reached up and squeezed his shoulder, lightly.  It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get his flagging self-control back together, and he was able to shake hands with Dmitri and Julia and their children, Irina and his namesake, Will; and then he found himself being hugged warmly by Marie Picard, who was now, he realised in wonder, his sister-in-law, and then he was listening to René and speaking with Robert, and introducing them to his cousin – his _cousin_ – Dmitri and Dmitri’s family.  And then there were the introductions to Dr McBride, who had graciously agreed to come, and Lior and Tzippi Cardozo, and Admiral Laidlaw, and Admiral Haden, and Ambassador Troi, as ebullient as ever, and the whole Enterprise family:  Beverly, and Deanna, and Worf, and Data, and Geordi, and Joao and Alyssa….Jai was on the dais leading his band in some quiet music, and he walked over to say hello, just to give himself a moment to breathe.

            “Would you like to come up here?” Jai asked, and Will realised that it wasn’t only Jean-Luc who knew him.  “A little bit of music, to settle you down?”

            “I’m okay,” he answered.  “I just didn’t understand why we were doing this….”

            “And now you do.”

            “Yeah,” Will agreed.  “And now I do.”

            “After the dinner, then,” Jai said.  “Come up and do a few sets.”

            Will nodded.  “Okay.  Yes.  Thanks.”

            “Will?” Jean-Luc appeared beside him.  “We’re ready to sit down.  Feeling better?”

            “Yes, a little,” he answered, following Jean-Luc to their seats.  “I was overwhelmed, I guess.”

            Jean-Luc’s face broke into a genuine smile, and it was stupid, Will thought, but it suddenly felt as if there were oxygen back in the room.  “It has been overwhelming,” Jean-Luc said.  “Perhaps these little customs are more important than either one of us realised.”

            Will sat, finding his hand instantly entwined with Jean-Luc’s under the table, and he grinned.  “I have a family,” he said.  It was his turn, obviously, to be the village idiot.

            “Indeed you do,” Jean-Luc replied.  “A rather large one, it appears.”

            As the champagne was poured, Will watched in surprise as McBride stood up, glass in hand.  “Tradition has this toast going to the family,” McBride began, “and so, as an honourary member of the Riker and Picard families, I would like to toast these two men, as they embark on their lives together.  Will and Jean-Luc, no one knows better than I how committed the two of you are to each other, and how hard you have both worked this past year to retain that commitment to each other in the face of great personal hardship and grave personal danger.  I think that I speak for all of us here in saying that it was with enormous pleasure that I received the news of your impending marriage.  May you have a long and loving life together, filled with happiness and joy, and may you continue to do the good works that have been set before you.  As we say, in Hebrew, to life – L’chaim!”

           

 

            He found himself standing next to Marie Picard, watching as René explained life shipboard to Dmitri’s kids, while Dmitri was speaking with Worf and Julia was deep in conversation with Deanna and her mother.  Jean-Luc was with Robert and Admiral Haden; with a practised eye, Will surveyed their guests; Beverly and Iñaki Sandoval, Ogawa and her husband, Miles and Keiko, Vara Liatos and Lior’s study group, with its newest member, Anna Ballester; Yash and da Costa and Stoch.  The meal had been great, after dinner drinks had been served, and his band was finishing its last set.  It was time to wrap things up – it was, he thought, an understatement to say that tomorrow would be a long day – and yet he was strangely reluctant to do so.  Perhaps because this seemed to be the one party he’d seen Jean-Luc enjoy.

            “Look at them,” Marie said.  “As if they have been friends for life.”

            Will smiled.  “We work well together, I think,” he said.  “You certainly would have made an excellent First.”

            Marie laughed, a warm sound that seemed to fill the space around her.  “As adventurous and as lovely as this has been, Will,” she answered, “I am happy to be a farmer’s wife.”

            “I’m looking forward to seeing your _farm_ ,” Will said.  “We always had a vegetable garden, growing up, or at least my Auntie Tasya did.  But the growing season in Alaska is quite short.”

            “Yes, Jean-Luc mentioned your affinity to the outdoors,” Marie remarked.  “I think you will enjoy our place.  Our village is small and we all know one another, and we try to keep to old practises, where we can.”

            “René seems to have beguiled my cousin’s children with tales of Starfleet,” Will said.  “Is that going to be a problem, then?  His wanting to join?”

            “Perhaps, now that Robert and Jean-Luc seem to have reconciled, it won’t be.”

            “Hello, Uncle Will,” René said.  “Are you so tall because you’re from Alaska?”

            “No,” Will answered.  “It’s simply because I am related to the frost giants.”

            “I don’t believe in giants,” René said, and then, “Who are the frost giants?”

            “You shall have to ask my cousin Dmitri,” Will answered, “as he is related to them too.  In fact, he is probably a fire jötunn, but don’t tell anyone.”

            René was silent, and then he said, disgustedly, “You’re teasing me.”

            “You will have to get used to that, Uncle,” Jean-Luc said.  “Teasing is one of Uncle Will’s main forms of communication.”

            René sighed.  “When I am a First, I will never tease anyone.”

            “Sometimes, René,” Will explained, “you will find that a little gentle teasing and a sense of humour will help your crew through a dangerous mission.”

            “And hugs,” Deanna said, arriving with Julia and Dmitri in tow.  “Will often uses hugs to motivate his crew as well.”

            Will rolled his eyes, and Deanna laughed.

            “Now everyone is teasing me,” René complained.

            “Don’t worry, René,” Will said, “I always ask before I hug a crewmember.” 

            Jean-Luc placed his hand on Will’s shoulder.  “As of tomorrow, Mr Riker, you won’t be hugging any crewmembers at all.”

            Marie Picard slipped her hand through her husband’s arm, and then she said, “I knew there was something I forgot to tell you, Will, when I wrote to you about joining the Picards.  They are possessive, as well as daunting.”

            Will felt himself colouring, just a bit, and when everyone had finished laughing at _him_ , he said to René, “You are right, it seems.  A First should never tease.”

 

 

 

           

            “Guy?” Jean-Luc said from the bedroom.

            Will opened the door to the head.  “Yeah?”

            “Can you help me with this?”

            “I’m not dressed.”

            “Ha,” Jean-Luc said.  “When has that ever stopped you?”

            “You’re not supposed to see me.” Will shut the door.

            “I’m not supposed to see you in your _dress_ ,” Jean-Luc replied.  “And if you’re wearing a dress, I’m not marrying you.”

            Will opened the door.  “Now you tell me,” he said.  “ _And_ after Deanna said I looked good in pink.”

            “William.”

            “Sir.”

            “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Jean-Luc exclaimed.  “You are the most irritating, most obnoxious, most infuriating person I have ever known.  Will you please help me with my fucking tie?”

            Will walked out of the bathroom, smirking, as he was leaving wet footprints on the deck.

            “You haven’t even dried yourself,” Jean-Luc said.

            “I was hoping you would offer.”  Will held him and kissed his neck.  “Just breathe, Jean-Luc,” he said.  “It’s only the bottoms of my feet that are wet.”  He stepped back and untied Jean-Luc’s tie and then retied it.  “How did you manage to do this before me?” he asked.

            “We didn’t have dress whites before, not since my Academy days.  We had those stupid dress things, remember?  No tie.”

            “You had a father and an older brother,” Will said.  “There.  Leave it, Jean-Luc, it’s perfect.  I know how to tie a tie.”

            “Are you getting dressed?  Or are we back to the whole Betazoid wedding again?”

            Will opened his mouth and then he shut it.  Jean-Luc was wearing his neutral expression and his eyes were dark.  He suddenly felt ridiculous, standing there naked, while his husband-to-be was already looking – resplendent, was that a word? – in his Starfleet dress whites.  He said, “I will get dressed and it will only take me five minutes.” He turned around before Jean-Luc could say anything, and in short order finished cleaning up the head and getting into his boxers and undershirt.  His dress whites were hanging on the door of the closet, and he dressed himself quickly, making sure that the garters were correct for his socks, aligning his belt buckle with his fly, making sure his collar was sharp; and then he stood in front of the mirror and tied his own tie.  He combed his hair one more time and then sat down on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots.  Jean-Luc was waiting for him in the dayroom, pacing, and he walked up to him and placed his hands on Jean-Luc’s shoulders.

            “Jean-Luc,” he said.  “I know I’m infuriating, and obnoxious, and irritating.  But it’s going to be all right.  I promise you it is.  Worf should be here in two minutes, and you know Worf.  He is never late.  Everything is done.  Everyone is already there.”

            “You’re not anxious?” Jean-Luc was suddenly still.

            He felt his smile widen across his face.  “No, Jean-Luc,” he answered.  “You are anxious.  I am fine.”

            “I just had this insane notion – and I tell you, Will, it was absolutely insane – that I should somehow just disappear –“

            He pulled Jean-Luc into him and held him.  “I know,” he said.  “It’s all about control, Jean-Luc.  All of this – the music, the guests, the food, even the champagne – it’s not in your control anymore.  You get like this, when you don’t have control.”

            “Yes,” Jean-Luc agreed, and he was breathing again.  “You are right, Will, of course you are.”

            The door chimed, and Will said, “Two minutes and here is Mr Worf.”

            “Come,” Jean-Luc said.

            Worf walked in.  “Captain.  Are you ready, sir?”

            “Why am I going first again?  Will?”

            “You aren’t going first, remember?  We will walk in together, on opposite sides, just as we practised.  Data will be here for me, in another minute or so.”

            “ _Bien_ ,” Jean-Luc agreed.  “I will see you there, then.”

            “Yes,” Will answered.  “You will see me there.”

           

 

 

            He’d never been, he thought, so scared in his life, and then he realised just what a ridiculous thought that was, and he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.  The _Enterprise_ orchestra was still playing the guests’ recessional, and he could see the ushers seating people and then escorting the guests of honour – their families, Dr McBride, Ambassador Troi, the Lady Elanna Lal, Admiral Haden, and Lior and Tzippi Cardozo – to their seats.  He took a deep breath, as the final notes of Vaughan Williams’s piece faded away, and there was the slight pause as the trumpeter stood and the music was changed.  He smiled, grimly, at Data, and then the first notes of the Trumpet Voluntary began.  He counted the measures in his head, and he walked out, to stand beside Data; and there was Jean-Luc, with Worf beside him.

            The notes fell away, and he turned to face Admiral Laidlaw, who began, much as Jean-Luc had, for Miles and Keiko’s wedding so many years ago.

            “In time-honoured tradition,” Valentine Laidlaw said, looking at Will and then at Jean-Luc, “the captain of a ship has been granted the honour and the joy of performing the rite of matrimony, when it was called upon him to do so.  However, when it is the captain himself who is getting married, he needs must go further up the chain of command – and thus the honour and the duty of performing this ritual has been given to me, to join together the lives of these two men.  Jean-Luc, William, it has been my privilege to know you both and to say with honesty that you represent the best that Starfleet has to offer.” 

            Will turned to face Jean-Luc, who mouthed “breathe” at him, and he could feel himself smiling in response.  He took a breath, and Laidlaw said, “Do you, William Thomas, take Jean-Luc, to be your life partner, to love, honour, comfort, and cherish, from this day forward, forsaking all others, as long as you both shall live?” and Will answered, solemnly, “I do;” and then Jean-Luc was repeating his vow; and he took the ring from Data’s hand and said, “Jean-Luc, today I join my life to yours, as your partner, your friend, your lover, and your confidant; to be the shoulder upon which you lean, the rock upon whom you rest, the companion of your life; to walk this day forward, with you, as one.”  He placed the ring on Jean-Luc’s finger and then he said, his voice trembling, “I, William Thomas, take you, Jean-Luc, to be my life’s companion; to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow; to love, honour, and cherish, all the days of my life.”  He swayed, a bit, because he’d locked his knees, and he felt Data’s hand on his arm steadying him.  Jean-Luc smiled at him, the one that reached his eyes, and he felt the ring – his ring, the ring Jean-Luc had given to him the night he’d proposed – slide on his finger, and Admiral Laidlaw announced, grinning, “Mazel tov, gentlemen.  You are now wed – and I believe we are all expecting a kiss.” 

            He felt a momentary sense of pride, because he didn’t roll his eyes, and then Jean-Luc brought his head down and he murmured, “In uniform, Jean-Luc?” just as Jean-Luc closed his mouth.  It was brief, which was a good thing, because he could feel his cheeks colouring, and he could see Jean-Luc was laughing with his eyes.  He shook hands with Laidlaw, after Jean-Luc, and he felt Jean-Luc take his hand – and then he heard the orchestra begin to play – not the Mouret, which he’d thought they’d agreed upon – and he turned to see Maelys and the other members of the _Enterprise_ choir file in and stand on the dais; and he realised, suddenly, that both Data and Worf had disappeared.  Jean-Luc was smiling now, and he heard Data say, “Carry, Sabres, forward march.”  As the sabre company moved forward, led by Data, he heard Maelys begin, “Eternal Father, strong to save, Whose arm hath bound the restless wave…”

            Data called, “Halt, Centre Face,” and then, “Present Sabres.”

            From behind him he heard Admiral Laidlaw respond, “May I present to you: Captain Jean-Luc Picard and Commander William Riker.”

            Data called, “Arch Sabres.”

            “Well, Number One?” Jean-Luc said, and together they walked beneath the sabre arch, passing first Data and Worf, then Geordi and Yash Fisk, and Will began to grin, because it was da Costa, of course, who lowered his sabre, along with Stoch, so that they could not pass.

            “Permission to pass, Ensign,” Jean-Luc said.

            “Permission denied, sir,” da Costa replied. “You must kiss to pass.”

            Will was laughing as Jean-Luc kissed him, and then da Costa said, “Permission granted,” and the sabres were raised, and they walked through, as the final words of the hymn were sung:

 

                        Our brethren shield in danger’s hour,

                        From rock and tempest, fire and foe,

                        Protect them wheresoe’er they go;

                        Thus evermore shall rise to Thee

                        Glad hymns of praise from land and sea.”

 

            Behind him he heard Data call out, “Present Sabres…Order Sabres…Carry Sabres…Left and right…Face, Forward march,” and he stood aside to watch his friends march forward, in military precision, a triumphant echo of the Fleet’s naval past.  And it was over, then, and they were surrounded by family – the word still amazed him – and their friends; embraced and encircled and beloved.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will speaks to Dr da Costa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joao da Costa was rescued, along with his older brother, by a lieutenant commander named William Riker as his parent's science station was exploding.

 

18. 

 

           

           

            He left the verandah and strode into the kitchen as he heard the strains of his old band begin “La vie en rose,” the husky voice of Maelys LePatourel following him even as he shut the door.  It was all too much; seeing himself as a young man again, seeing Jean-Luc as the captain he’d been.  Seeing McBride.  And Deanna. 

            He felt his eyes filling with tears, and angrily he brushed them away, busying himself with preparing drinks and mid-morning snacks for everyone.  It would be a long day.  Sascha had promised that their uniforms would be sorted out, and he was sure there would be more to do at Les Fonts as their guests began to arrive. 

            “Guy.”  Jean-Luc walked up behind him.  “Are you all right?”

            “Yeah.”  He placed the cups on the tray and began pouring the coffee.

            “Guy.  Stop,” Jean-Luc said.  “Turn around.”

            “I thought I’d bring in snacks –“

            “I miss them too.”

            “I don’t want to do this,” Will said, resting his head on Jean-Luc’s shoulder.  “They should have asked us.”

            “I know.”

            “It will be too hard,” he continued.  “And everyone will be asking me about you, and how you are, and what your prognosis is….”

            “Yes,” Jean-Luc agreed.  “They’ll be tiptoeing around me, but hounding you.”

            “Fuck,” Will said.  “We should have just gone away.”

            “We can still go away, Guy.”

            “Can we?”  He glanced at Jean-Luc. 

            “There’s no point in worrying about it,” Jean-Luc said.  “You always did worry too much.”

            There were half a dozen things he could say to that, but as he looked at Jean-Luc’s steady gaze, he realised that he was looking at his captain, and that his captain was always right.  He could miss McBride and Deanna, and even Robert and René, though he hadn’t had enough time with them to know them as well as he would have liked; he could miss them, and the party might be difficult, and a pain in his ass, but the truth was that his captain was still here, and he was still with him, and that was all he’d ever wanted.  Yes, he’d spent the first half of his life in unspeakable pain.  But the second half of his life had been filled with joy and a job well-loved.

            “You are a genius,” he told Jean-Luc, and he held him as closely as he felt he could without his own silly worrying about breaking Jean-Luc’s fragile bones.

            “Am I?” Jean-Luc murmured, his voice muffled by Will’s shirt.

            “Mmm-hmm,” Will said, and then he grinned, because they’d been together so long they even echoed each other’s speech.  “I worry about all kinds of stupid things,” he explained.  “I always have.  I even made it my job as your First, to be the _Enterprise_ ’s chief worrier.  That’s what Deanna called me, once.”

            “Chief Worrying Officer has a certain ring to it,” Jean-Luc agreed.  “You could propose it at your next meeting with HQ.”

            “People will still ask me how you are tomorrow night,” Will said.  “And I will still miss Dr McBride and Deanna.  But we can still have a good time.”

            “That’s my boy,” Jean-Luc said smugly, and Will could feel he was laughing.

            “Do you remember what you said to me before the ceremony?”  Will asked.  “When I tied your tie?”

            He could feel Jean-Luc was thinking.

            “Jean-Luc?”

            “When I told you that you were infuriating and obnoxious?”  Jean-Luc was smiling when he looked up.

            “And irritating,” Will said.  “Don’t forget irritating.”  He was laughing now too, his earlier sadness fading away. 

            “You have a point to make, William?”

            Will said, “Just that those words apply to you as well.”

            “Which is why this marriage has always worked,” Jean-Luc said thoughtfully.  “We are rarely those attributes to one another at the same time.”

            “Except this morning,” Will reminded him.  “We were both a little cranky this morning.”

            “You were only cranky because I was,” Jean-Luc said.  “Do you want me to help you with this?”

            “Yes, if you don’t mind,” Will answered.  “Can you get the tea cozy?”

            “You’ll need another cup.”  Jean-Luc opened a drawer and took out the tea cozy, which had clearly been created by a child.  “I forgot to tell you.”

            “You forgot to tell me what?” Will asked, taking another cup down and placing it on the tray.

            “Your Mr da Costa is here,” Jean-Luc said.

 

 

            They met in Will’s office, not the music room.  Will pulled the chair around so he wasn’t sitting behind his desk, and sipped his coffee.  Da Costa just grinned when he saw it, and Will didn’t even bother to pretend it was decaf.

            “You’d never showed your children your wedding?” da Costa asked.  He too had a cup of coffee, but he wasn’t drinking it.  “Or Jean-Luc?”

            Will shrugged.  “I forgot I had it,” he said.  “Until Rose started all this with the anniversary.  Jean-Luc thought it would be a good idea for the kids to see it.”

            “He thought it would be a good idea for them to see it, or for himself to see it?” da Costa asked.

            “He said it was for the kids.  Because we’d never talked much, about ourselves to them.”

            “Yes?”

            “I hate it when you do that,” Will complained.  “Even McBride didn’t do that.”

            Da Costa said, “I am not Dr McBride.”

            “No.”  Will picked up his cup and then put it down.

            “You have some resistance,” da Costa observed.

            “We apparently have half of Starfleet coming tomorrow night,” Will answered, “and I still don’t know whether I can fit into my dress whites.”

            Surprisingly da Costa laughed.  He took a sip of his coffee and said, “ _Café con_ _leche_?”

            “I prefer it.”

            “You make it yourself?”

            “You’ll find, Mr da Costa,” Will said, “that up until this past week, we’ve done just about everything in this house ourselves.”  Will paused, and then he said, “I had enough replicated food for a lifetime, and you can get almost everything fresh here.  I grow my own vegetables, and our own fruit, and our neighbour supplies us with fresh eggs.”

            “It sounds lovely,” da Costa remarked.  “You always did enjoy cooking.”

            “Even when I couldn’t eat,” Will acknowledged.

            “You seem to be doing well in that regard, Will,” da Costa said.

            “Are you saying I’m fat?” Will demanded.  “You’re still an asshole, da Costa, psychiatrist or not.”

            Da Costa obliged Will by rolling his eyes.  “All I meant, Admiral Riker,” da Costa said, “is that you look well.”  He waited and then he asked, “Are you?”

            “I could never fool you,” Will replied.

            “That is not quite true.”

            Will grinned, briefly.  He said, “I’ve had a few symptoms.  It’s been a rough week.”

            “Jean-Luc has lost weight.  He looks frail.”

            “He fell this morning.”  Will realised his hand was shaking, and he stilled it.  “He’s probably in pain, not that he’d say anything to anyone, even when there are two doctors in the house.”  He looked at da Costa and amended, “Three.”

            “Rose’s fiancé is a doctor?”

            “Graeme.  Yes, a surgeon.  He makes a great sous chef.”

            “You’ve been feeding this horde yourself?” da Costa didn’t smirk, but Will knew he wanted to.

            “Don’t be an asshole, Joao,” Will said.  “Sascha lives on replicated food, even in San Francisco.  Rose is too busy with morning sickness to eat, and who knows what the hell Jean-Guy does at school.”

            Da Costa said nothing; “It gives me something to do,” Will said.

            “Since there is nothing you can do for Jean-Luc.”

            Will set the cup on his desk, spilling a little.

            “It is,” da Costa told him, “perfectly normal to be angry with the person who is dying.”

            “Oh, fuck you.”  Will mopped up the coffee with his sleeve.

            “Nevertheless.”

            “I’m doing the best I can.”

            “Of course you are,” da Costa agreed.  “Isn’t that what you always do, regardless of the circumstances?  I’m not here to treat Jean-Luc, Will.  I’m here to talk to you.  What do you need?  What can I do to help you?”

            “I had a panic attack,” Will said, “just one.  Because I lost him, the other day.  He was in the study and he’d fallen asleep.  He’d already had one incident, in the morning, when he’d gotten confused and frightened.  I went outside, just to clear my head.  When I came back in, he was gone.”  Will hesitated.  “I worked through it, because I really didn’t have the time.  I still don’t know how the hell he got to the marina.  And then I had the old nightmare again.  It’s been a long time since that happened – and I wasn’t prepared for it.”

            “Tell me about it.”

            “You already know it,” Will said.

            “Is your stomach hurting?”

            “I told you I was eating.”

            “Will.”  Da Costa leaned forward.  “I know that you’ve begun to tell your children what happened; that you told them about Rosie.  I can surmise why you wanted them to see the wedding video, when you’d never been interested in watching it before.  I understand from Jean-Luc that he would like you to tell the rest of your story, so that your family has the information they need.  I think,” da Costa said, “that this is a good idea.  But you are going to need support in order to do this, and you are in need of far more emotional support than you are getting in order to deal with your husband’s illness and eventual death.”

            Will stood, and turned around, gazing out the window at Mercè’s garden and henhouse.  Da Costa was silent, waiting.

            “It started out the way it always does,” Will began.  He did not turn around.  “I was running in the woods.  But I was dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, so I knew it was a dream, and not the memory.”  He heard da Costa set his cup on the desk, but he remained at the window.  “When I got to the creek, it wasn’t Rosie in the water.”

            “Who was in the water, Will?”

            “My father.”

            “It’s been some time since that’s happened.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Is your stomach hurting?”

            “Yesterday.  It hurt yesterday, talking about Rosie.”

            “And now?”

            “I don’t want to do this.”

            “I know, Will.” 

            “Will you help me?” Will asked, turning around.  “Talk to them?  Tell the rest of it?”

            “Are you asking me to join you, when you do this?” da Costa asked.  “Or would you just like me to be present in the house?”

            “I don’t know.”  Will sat down in the char.  He fiddled with his cup.  “It’s cold,” he said.  “Do you want another cup?”

            “I think,” da Costa said gently, “that you have had enough.”

            Will nodded.  “Okay.”

            “Did he speak to you?”

            “He turned over,” Will said, “and his chest was all burned, the way it was just before he died.  And he said, _It’s all right, son.  You can let him go_.”

            “Why do you think you would need your father’s permission to allow Jean-Luc to die?” da Costa asked.

            “I don’t want Jean-Luc to die.”

            “Of course you don’t,” da Costa agreed.  “It’s hard, being alone.  And you were alone for a very long time – half your life – before you were able to let someone in.”

            Will glanced at da Costa.  He looked the same, merely older; a few more lines on his face, his hair greying.  He’d heard the divorce hadn’t been kind, but he saw only da Costa’s calm, centred expression, so like McBride’s, despite what he’d said.

            “I don’t know,” he answered.

            “I think perhaps you do,” da Costa said.

            “Yeah.”  He sighed.  “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

            “I don’t know, Will.  Do you need to say it?”

            “He gave me permission to let him go,” Will said, finally.  “To let everything he’d done, everything he’d said, all the pain…to give us both an end, I guess.”  He wiped his face with his sleeve.  “I need to give myself permission to allow Jean-Luc to be ill.  To take care of him, the way he needs to be taken care of.  I need to allow him to have his own death, without me fighting it.  Without my stuff preventing him from doing what he has to do, so he can let go when it’s time.”  He was weeping, and da Costa was quiet, allowing him the time he needed to work it through.

            After a few minutes, da Costa said, “We should have a conversation about medication.”

            “Ah, fuck,” Will said.

            “Not long term, Will.  I don’t think you need long-term.  Just until you have the supports in place.  There will be a time, with this disease, before hospice, when you will be caring for him day and night, even though you’ll have some staff to help.  It won’t be easy, and you need to be sure that you are okay.”  Da Costa paused and then he added, “You know I don’t take medication lightly, Will.”

            “Okay.”

            “Why don’t we do a breathing exercise now?  Get you grounded, before you start trying to fit in that uniform of yours.”

            Will glanced up sharply; da Costa was smiling.

            “Do you still want me here?  Will?” da Costa asked.

            “Do you mind?”  He felt stupid, asking.

            “Of course I don’t,” da Costa replied.  This time his smile was the one Will remembered.  “It’s why I’m here.”

            Will nodded.  “I still don’t want to do this,” he said, standing.  “But I guess it’s time.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will speaks to his children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In A Million Sherds, Will shot his father close-range with a phaser to defend himself. However, when he and his father were both about to fall to their deaths, Kyle Riker said, "It's all right, son. You can let me go."

19.

 

 

Happily, he’d been able to push off the conversation he needed to have with his kids, because they’d wanted to watch the whole wedding video, and then they’d wanted to see some parts again, and he’d made snacks and drinks, and then Rose suggested that they all go out to lunch, and check in with the venue on the way back.  They’d driven into Barcelona, like a caravan, Will thought, what with the kids and Locarno and da Costa, and true to his word, Sascha had somehow managed to coerce Starfleet into finding two dress white uniforms for one slightly overweight and aging Admiral and one very underweight and frail retired Captain.  Sascha would, Will thought, make the perfect XO for Diako if he had the guts to take it, and he hoped his son did.  It would be hard on Jean-Luc not to have Sascha around – they had a closeness, those two, that he’d never been able to have with Sascha – but, ultimately, Will thought, as he watched Sascha speak to his papi while they ate at Albert’s _comida_ , Jean-Luc would drift further and further away to the point where he would forget Sascha.  Perhaps it would be best if Sascha were in deep space when that happened; everyone, he knew, assumed that Rose and Jean-Guy were the children most like himself, Rose with her cheeky grin and her easy laughter, Jean-Guy with his music; but it was Sascha, over-responsible, anxiety-ridden, inarticulate Sascha, who most closely resembled him.  It was, of course, the reason why Jean-Luc loved him so. That, he thought, and because Jean-Luc still felt guilty, all these years later, for having abandoned the little boy who adored him. 

            Jean-Luc was exhausted when they finally returned home, and sore, although he was pretending he wasn’t.  Will convinced him to allow Rose to give him something for the pain, and then he’d tried to convince him that resting would be a good idea.  They had a big night, tomorrow night.  He had work that he could do, so he’d sit with him, while he rested.  Locarno could take da Costa back to Les Fonts, and then go home.  He figured he’d made a pretty good case.

            Jean-Luc had always listened to him, regardless of whatever it was he’d had to say; and there’d been times, when he was new to the _D_ , when he’d been loud, and insistent, and even aggressive, in his opinions; but Jean-Luc had listened to him, when another captain might have sent him packing, and Jean-Luc listened to him now, as he made his case for resting for an hour or two and sending some of the troops home.  It was only as he was finishing, and getting ready to help Jean-Luc up out of his chair and up the stairs, that he realised the kids were not going anywhere; that da Costa was watching him, and even Locarno had a bemused look on his face.

            “Are you finished, Guy?” Jean-Luc asked, mildly.  He wasn’t wearing his neutral expression, but he might as well have, Will realised, because that was the tone of voice he used at the end of every staff meeting where he’d given his orders to Mr Data and thanked Mr Riker for his time.

            He sighed.  “But, Jean-Luc – “ he began.

            “You asked your Mr da Costa to be here with you,” Jean-Luc said.  “And here he is.”

            “You’re exhausted,” Will protested.  “And you hurt yourself this morning –“

            “William.”

            Well, shit, Will thought.  “Sir.”

            “We’ll be more comfortable in the dayroom, I should think,” Jean-Luc said.  “And you won’t get coffee or tea for anyone.  Let Mr Locarno take care of that.”

            Will looked at the faces of his children.  “But I don’t know what to say.”

            Jean-Luc said, standing, meeting Will’s eyes with his captain’s gaze, “Then you let me start.  And when you’re ready, you can take over.”

            “You planned this,” Will said angrily, looking at da Costa.

            “Why don’t you go with your father to the dayroom,” da Costa suggested, looking at Will’s kids.  “I’m sure, Ensign, that Ambassador Picard could use some help.”

            “I don’t want to talk to you.”  He knew he sounded childish, but he didn’t care.

            “I have you, sir,” Locarno said, taking Jean-Luc’s arm, and Will watched sullenly as they left the kitchen.

            “Sit down, Will,” da Costa said.

            “Whatever.”  He turned away, to gaze out the back door.

            “I asked you to sit down.”

            “May I remind you, Captain,” Will said, his back still turned, “that this is my house, and I still outrank you?”

            “And I might remind you, sir,” da Costa said, “that I am your doctor, and you are my patient, and I’ve asked you, Admiral Riker, to sit down.”

            “Looking for a Betazoid couch?” he asked, but he sat down.

            “Will,” da Costa said.  “Did you ever read the paper Dr McBride wrote on your father?”

            “No.”  He felt both foolish and stupid, and he hated feeling this way in front of da Costa.  He and da Costa went too far back for him to feel this way.

            “Perhaps you should,” da Costa remarked.

            “It suggests a genetic component to what my father was?”  Will wished he had something to do with his hands.  “If a geneticist mapped my genes, it would be there?”

            “It’s more complicated than that,” da Costa said.  “Dr McBride felt it was an extremely complex issue.  On the surface, no one could understand why your father was the way he was.  Dr McBride spoke to your father’s sisters at great length, and was able to take genetic samples from them and from you.  He felt that your father had a genetic predisposition to certain neurological issues, which were subsequently overlooked when he was an infant.  There was a lack of attachment – he seemed to fail to thrive; he was irritable, and hard to soothe, and difficult to feed.  If you place a difficult infant with indifferent parents…it was a constellation of issues, Will.  It was not just one gene.”

            “Why, then, is it so damned important, to you and to Jean-Luc, that I should change forever what my children think of me?  They are going to think –“  He stopped.

            “What you think, Will?” da Costa asked.  “After all these years?  Are you fighting those same battles again?”

            “Won’t they think what I thought?” he asked.  “My father was a homosexual paedophile, a man who preferred little boys to adult men.  Their father has spent thirty-six years living with an older man.  If I tell them that my father groomed me to please him – what else would they think?”

            “Will.” Da Costa sighed.  “Your children have spent all their lives with you and Jean-Luc.  They know the truth.  What you and Jean-Luc have – it’s been real, every step of the way.  I was there at the beginning, remember?  You’ve fought, and you’ve laughed, and you’ve raised three great kids.  That’s more than many people ever do, Will.”  Da Costa paused, and then he said, “Your father groomed you, yes.  But his purpose was not to please him, and I think you know that.  Yes, it will change what your children think of you.  They’ll be hurt for you, and be sad, and angry.  But they –“ da Costa was grinning now, his old familiar grin – “they don’t know who you are.  You are the man who took down the Borg.  Twice.  You are the man who destroyed Section 31.  They should know that, don’t you think?”

            “I didn’t do any of those things,” Will said.

            “Of course you didn’t, Admiral Riker.”

            “Fuck you, da Costa.”

            “Let Jean-Luc take the lead,” da Costa said, ignoring him. “Just as he offered.”  Da Costa stood up, and waited for Will to rise.  “And when you’re ready, you take over.  I’ll be right here, to help wherever I can.”

            Will wished he had the observation deck. 

            “Breathe, Mr Riker,” da Costa said.

            He began to breathe, and followed da Costa into the dayroom.

 

           

            “There you are,” Jean-Luc said, and he moved over on the sofa, just a bit, so that Will could sit beside him.  Will felt Jean-Luc’s arm slide behind him, and he moved closer, so that their hips were touching.  “Feeling better?”

            Will shrugged.  “It’s your meeting,” he said.

            Jean-Luc said, as if there were no one else in the room, “You have to do this, Will.  We owe it to them to tell them the truth.  We both do.  I’ve been keeping my secrets as well as yours.”

            Will glanced at Jean-Luc, surprised, but Jean-Luc continued, “No more secrets.  Isn’t that what you said to me, once?  Just before we married?  Hiding stuff makes us sick.  That’s what you said.  And you were right, you know.  I don’t have much time.  I lose a little bit each day – and no, I’m not talking about when I wake up in the morning and I’ve forgotten us.  I’m losing real things, Guy.  Not just memories, but people.  Feelings.  I’d like my children to see who I was, once – before they have to cope with what I’m going to be.”

            Will swallowed.  He knew what Jean-Luc was losing, but he hadn’t known how self-aware Jean-Luc was about it.  “Sometimes,” he said, before he could stop himself, “I think the Borg should have gotten us both.”

            There was a shocked silence.

            “Dad,” Sascha began, but Jean-Luc glanced at him, and Sascha was quiet.  Jean-Luc took his hand.  “No, you don’t, Guy.  We’ll be all right.”

            Will looked at Jean-Luc and then da Costa, and then his kids.  “Yeah,” he said, but he didn’t know if he meant it.

            “I chose your father to be my first officer sight unseen,” Jean-Luc told them.  “I had a stack of applications, for the _D_.  They all looked alike, every one of them.  I’d seriously considered Kathy Janeway, but she’d accepted captaincy of the _Voyager_ , and that left me with my stack of applications.”  Jean-Luc smiled, looking at Sascha.  “Your first officer runs your ship for you, carries out your commands, runs interference, saves your arse…and every single one of those applicants was qualified.”  He took a sip of his tea, and set the mug back down on the table.  “I read them, looking for something, anything, that would give me a hint of the personality behind all the glowing recommendations, all the honours, all the _stuff_.  And then I saw the name Riker, and I remembered a lieutenant commander who’d been a terrific officer and who’d died much too young.  And I wondered if this were her son.  I looked at the holo, and it was as if I were seeing her again.  At the Academy.  On starbases, passing from one duty to the next.  We never served together.  But it was she, all right.  And so I read the report, and there it was – what I needed to know.”

            “What was that, Papi?” Sascha asked.  “What should a captain know about a first officer?”

            “He’d been on the _Hood_ ,” Jean-Luc answered, “under Bobby De Soto.  And he’d refused to allow Bobby to lead an away team.  Refused a direct order.  In fact, he was intransigent.  He risked a general court martial – and nearly received a reprimand.”

            “I don’t understand,” Sascha said.  “He was insubordinate?”

            Da Costa remarked, “Your father wrote the book on insubordination.”

            “Indeed,” Jean-Luc agreed.  “In fact, he was even relieved of command for it once.”

            Will rolled his eyes.  “As if you weren’t insubordinate yourself, Jean-Luc,” he muttered. 

            “Yes, that’s true.  Although I was merely following the master.”

            “On the _Stargazer_?”

            “Ah, well, the _Stargazer_ ,” Jean-Luc admitted.  “The point is, Sascha, that your father has spent his career thinking of the ship – and the ship’s captain by default – over anything else.  The good of the ship is everything.  The ship needs its captain, and if the captain is in danger – that’s not good for the ship.  I’d found a first officer who would be strong enough to stand up to me, to tell me when he thought I was wrong, to think of my ship before his own career.  The _Enterprise_ deserved nothing less.  So I promoted him to commander sight unseen, and we picked him up at Farpoint Station, along with Geordi La Forge and Beverly and Wesley Crusher, after our little scrape with Q.”

            “And then you,” Will said, grinning, “told me to dock the saucer section manually.  And when I hesitated, you said, ‘You _are_ fully qualified, aren’t you, Mr Riker?’”

            “I’ve always felt badly about that,” Jean-Luc replied.

            “I think I fell in love with you then.”  It was a running joke between them.  “It was the ultimate test of a first officer, from the man who gave us the Picard Maneuver.  Would I accept the challenge, and trust that my captain’s instincts told him I was equal to the task?  Or would I back down, and show that I had no confidence in my own skills, even if that confidence was misplaced?”

            Sascha finished the story.  “You manually docked the saucer section, using the saucer’s inertia to guide her home.”

            “Your father is the best pilot in Starfleet,” Jean-Luc affirmed.  “The Riker Maneuver is just as impressive, and far more pragmatic.”  Jean-Luc paused, and then he said, “What this has to do with what your father went through is this.  He’d already been tested by fire.  He’d already gone through more than anyone else had on the ship.  He had guts, and determination, and skill.  He was young, and brash, and sometimes more aggressive than he needed to be – but he was perfect for the _D_.  He ran her perfectly.  He used his sense of humour, and he played the crew like the musician he is.  Every once in a while, I would catch sight of something else.  Something troubling.  He’d make a remark and I’d wonder where it came from.  He was moody, for no apparent reason.  When he got in trouble with me, it seemed to come out of nowhere.  There were times when it seemed he was two completely different people.”

            Jean-Luc drank his tea, and let the remark settle.  He was still holding Will’s hand, and Will felt him apply just a little pressure, to reassure him.  Da Costa’s gaze was steady, and Will let the silence grow, giving the kids time to think about where their papi was leading them.  Even Locarno seemed caught up in the story.

            “We had a mission once,” Jean-Luc began.  “To reunite two members of a warring people.  Your father was attracted to one of the queen’s retinue, perhaps,” Jean-Luc added, looking at Will, “because he sensed in her some of his own issues, some of his own struggles.  He was always very intuitive, when he allowed himself to be.  It turned out that this young woman was genetically engineered, and had lived a very long time, to enact revenge on the clan which had wiped out her own.  Your father figured it out, and appeared with a phaser in the middle of our negotiations.  I’ll never forget the look on his face, or the look on hers.  She dared him to kill her – and he did, even though stunning her would have done the job.  It was never more obvious to me then, that your father was two people – the kind, humourous, efficient officer I dealt with on a daily basis, and a man who would kill without blinking an eye.  And yet when we faced the Borg – it was _that_ man who saved me, and the Federation.”

            Will felt that his hand was shaking, and he let Jean-Luc still it.  He didn’t want to remember the things that Billy had done, not even the good things, as stupid as that sounded.  He didn’t want to remember Billy – he didn’t want to unlock that file cabinet, and take out those discs, and examine them, one by one.  He could feel that he wasn’t breathing, and he took a breath, exhaling slowly, trying to calm himself down.  His stomach was hurting.  He wondered if he should let da Costa know, but then da Costa said, quietly, “When a young child is severely traumatised, to the point where the child’s ego is threatened with annihilation, the child responds by dissociating from the event.  What this means is that the child allows the primary ego to go someplace safe, internally, in a way that shuts down what is actually happening at the time.  It’s a survival technique that humans have.  You may notice time slowing down, for example, if you are being threatened – that distancing feeling, that feeling of being separated from reality, is called dissociation.  Your father’s trauma began when he was very young.  In order to keep his ego from shattering, he dissociated into two separate identities – two little boys, William and Billy.”

            “Billy,” Jean-Luc took up the thread, “was the personality who endured the unbearable abuse.  Billy experienced the rage, and the pain, and the shame.  William was the personality who tried to live the life of a normal little boy.  He was very bright, and he had friends, but he also was a very frightened and wounded child.”

            “So you are saying that Dad has – or had –“ Rose was speaking in her professional voice “—dissociative personality disorder?  That he was these two personalities, William and Billy, even on the _Enterprise D_?”  She reached for Grae’s hand and held it.  “You told us, Dad, about your friend, the little girl I’m named after.  You told us that she was murdered, horribly murdered, and that you found her body twice – once after she’d been murdered and then again, after she’d been missing, in the creek.  And the nightmare you had the other night – that was finding her in the creek, wasn’t it?”

            “It was similar circumstances,” Will said.  “It was a dream, a nightmare – not the actual memory of finding Rosie.”

            “Who killed Rosie, then?” Jean-Guy asked.  “Because you told us the story out of context.  So who killed her, and why would anyone want to kill a little kid anyway?  Who hurt you, Dad?”

            Jean-Luc said, “Your father was struggling on the _D_ , Jean-Guy, as we were beginning to be more involved with the Cardassians, and the Klingon world was becoming unstable, and the Romulans were growing bolder, all leading up to the Dominion War.  He’d been relieved of command, by Capt. Jellico.  He’d been through a board of inquiry, over the incident with Admiral Pressman and the _Pegasus_.  I was becoming concerned, as was Counsellor Troi.  And then he began hurting himself, on the holodeck.  Injuries that were not the sort of common accidental injuries you get on a holodeck.  No, these were because he was doing dangerous things, with the safety protocols turned off.”

            “You’re saying he was suicidal?” Rose asked.

            “Dr Crusher thought he was in real trouble,” Jean-Luc concurred.  “And she told me she was ready to ground him, and that I should speak to him about it.  That I should assess him myself.”

            “This was before,” Sascha interrupted.

            “Before what, Sascha?” Will saw his son, and then he wondered how he could be so selfish.  Rose – Rose had her professional self she could fall back on.  And Jean-Guy was so young, so naïve that he would miss those things which were left unsaid.  But Sascha – Sascha, with his own secrets he’d kept so long to himself -- Will’s heart ached for him.  “Before Papi and I were a couple?”

            Sascha nodded.

            “It was the beginning,” Will said.  He turned to Jean-Luc and he said, using his captain’s voice, “I will tell it, now.  I need to.”

            “ _Bien_ , Guy,” Jean-Luc answered quietly.  “You do what you need to do.”

            “The captain called me into his ready room,” Will said, “and I went in there, like the big idiot I was, totally unaware of all the anxiety I was projecting, completely unaware that I wasn’t breathing, no realisation at all that there were dark circles under my eyes, or that my hands were shaking, or that I was two minutes from vomiting at any given time.  No awareness that, at that point in time, I’d already started the dramatic loss of weight I was to suffer with this illness.  No, I went in there, the captain’s Number One, ready for whatever orders he had for me, ready for a new mission.  Slung my leg over the chair –“ He grinned, briefly, at the shock of recognition in his children’s eyes “—and sat there while my captain took me apart, layer by layer, exposing my illness, discarding the persona I’d worn so long, and then telling me that he knew how I felt about him.”  He paused, and then he said, “It took about twenty minutes, I guess.  And there I was, exposed.  He knew I loved him.  He knew I was ill.  He knew I was a fake, a masque, a pretense.  I’ve had many terrible moments in my life, and that was one of them.”

            Jean-Guy said, “What did you do?”

            Will looked at Sascha.  “Papi asked me, did I have the guts to ask him what I wanted.  He said, you had the guts to defeat the Borg.  Do you have the guts to ask for what you want?”

            “It was wrong, Will,” Jean-Luc interrupted.  “It was wrong of me to ask you that, when I knew how ill you were.  McBride told me that, and he was right.  I took advantage of you.”

            “Jean-Luc,” Will said, and he felt himself becoming who he was, Admiral William T Riker.  “Are you still holding onto that bullshit?  Tell me you aren’t still carrying that damned cross.  You should have been a priest.”

            Da Costa let out a bark of laughter.  “I’m sorry, Will,” he said, wiping his eyes, “but I truly wish Dr McBride were here to hear you say that.”

            Will took Jean-Luc’s hands.  “You saved my life.  You – and I don’t give a damn why you thought you did it, whether it was because you felt sorry for me or because you thought you could help me or whatever the stupid reason was – offered to love me.  _You_ did.  You, who were so afraid of giving yourself to anyone.  Who’d walked away – in the time that I was on that ship – from more people than I can count, people who would have – who were willing to love you.  You stripped away all of my bullshit and then you dared me to ask you for what I wanted.  From the moment I stepped on that ship, Jean-Luc, you _knew_ me.  You knew I could dock the goddamned saucer section.  You knew I could do anything, if you were there to back me up.  And so I did.  I told you I loved you – “  He stopped, because he thought he wouldn’t be able to go on, but for once, the words were there, waiting to be said.  “And you told me you loved me.”

            “As I still do,” Jean-Luc said.

            Will turned from Jean-Luc and he looked back to Sascha.  “It’s all right, son,” he said.  “I know – we both know – that we hurt you, when Papi went away.  And for some reason you took that on yourself – I don’t know why, except I know that that’s what children do, because I did it myself – but it was never your fault, Sascha.  You don’t have to hide your hurt and your anger from us – or yourself.  You can take that job with Captain Diako, or you can spend your life at the Academy – and you can bring that young man home to meet us, too, if you wish – because we love you, Sascha, always.  We’ve always loved you.”

            “Maybe I can make tea,” Locarno offered, rising, and Jean-Luc nodded.

            “Alexandré?” Rose asked.  “Are you all right?”

            Sascha had been looking at the floor, and Will wanted to forget that his son was a grown man, and a lieutenant commander, and just get up and walk over to him, and hold him, because somehow there was this thought that maybe he’d held Rose enough, and Jean-Guy enough, but not Sascha…that Sascha, for whatever reason, had fallen through their cracks, with his diffidence and his insistence that he could do everything himself.  “Sascha?” Will asked, and he hoped that just once Sascha would forget those years of seeming estrangement.

            Sascha looked up and his eyes were clear.  “I’m okay,” he said, and Will didn’t know whether Sascha was saying this to his fathers, or to himself.  “It’s Ben.  His name is Ben.”

            Will found himself grinning.  “Good,” he said.  “That’s good.  Our family’s expanding, Jean-Luc.”  He glanced at Rose and Grae, and then at his youngest, who clearly hadn’t been told of his sister’s pregnancy, and then he said, “I haven’t wanted to talk about this, not just because it’s painful, or because I have all these memories that Captain da Costa here and Dr McBride helped me put away, that I don’t want to take out and look at again.  But because I’ve been afraid, in the same way I was afraid with Papi, and my friends on the _D_ , that once you knew what happened to me…what my father did, and what he forced me to do, and how he enmeshed me – I think that’s the word – in my own abuse – I’ve been afraid that you wouldn’t see me as your father anymore, or even as a man; but as this pathetic, damaged little kid.  And that it would destroy the relationships that I have with you.  And that it would burden you in ways you weren’t ready for or could understand.”  He paused, and then he said, “No, don’t say anything yet, please.  Just let me work through this, what I want to say.  Sometimes it’s still hard for me, to find words to explain what I’m feeling…I know,” he acknowledged, “you don’t see me as inarticulate.  But a joke covers up a lot…I’ve always used humour as a distraction, “ he felt Jean-Luc squeeze his hand, “so that I could avoid taking the time to find the right words to say what I need to say.  When Papi and I argue, it’s usually because of that.”  He glanced, again, at Sascha, and he found himself looking at his own hands, both of them trembling.

            “Can I help you, Will?” da Costa asked.

            “No.”  He looked up, at da Costa first, and then at his children.  “This fellow – Ben…He teaches at the Academy?”

            Sascha nodded.  “Xenolinguistics.”

            “Would he go with you, to space?”

            “I haven’t asked him.”

            Will suppressed a sigh.  “I know you’ve never wanted my help, or Papi’s,” he began.  “But I could ask Diako…she’s good people, Alexandré.”

            “You didn’t ask her to consider me?” Sascha sounded surprised.

            “Of course not,” Will replied.  “You would be furious with me, if I’d done that.”

            “But she knows you,” Sascha said stubbornly.

            “Alexandré.”  Jean-Luc’s voice was quiet, but it was still a command.

            “Sir?”

            “Your father was Admiral of the Fleet.  Don’t you think he knows everyone?”

            Rose started laughing, and Locarno walked in with his tray of drinks.

            “I hope that’s decaf,” da Costa remarked, as Will took his mug of coffee.

            “Of course it is, sir,” Locarno answered, but Will had seen a flicker in his eyes, and he tried not to grin.

            He sipped his coffee, thinking about what it was he wanted to say.  There was so much to tell – too much.  His father’s childhood, and the death of his brother Wharton.  His mother’s illness, and how it had set up the onset of his illness.  His father’s grooming of him, to be a weapon for a rogue branch of Starfleet.  What, he thought, would Rose need to know, or Jean-Guy, or Sascha, that would help them help him as he cared for Jean-Luc?  What would they need to know when it came time for them to care for him?

He didn’t really know.  He felt Jean-Luc tug him closer, and he leaned, just for a moment, into him. 

            “You asked me if my nightmare was about finding Rosie in the creek,” he said.  It felt so strangely sad, to be saying Rosie’s name to Rose, her namesake.  When had he stopped remembering Rosie every time he said Rose’s name?  It must have been when she was a baby, and perhaps that’s the way things happened, the memory fades because children demand all your time, and the metaphysical is no longer important.

            “Yes,” Rose answered in her psychiatrist’s voice.  For one split second he thought it was Deanna’s voice and he looked up, surprised to see only da Costa and his daughter and his daughter’s fiancé.

            “In my dreams of the memory,” Will said, “I’m running down the path through the woods, crying, and I trip over brambles and rocks.  Sometimes I’m dressed only in shorts and a t-shirt.  Sometimes my dog Bet is with me, running ahead, and scares out a hare, or an otter.”  He looked at his coffee in its ceramic mug.  “I’m crying because I know what will happen.  I know Rosie is already dead, and I know how she died – and I know that when I come round the bend of the path, to the deep pool in the creek, that I’ll see her there, beneath the water.”

            “Breathe,” Jean-Luc murmured.

            He breathed.  “That’s what happened in real life, I came around the bend in the path with Bet and I saw her in the water.  But sometimes – many times – in my dream it’s not Rosie I see, but someone that I guess my subconscious is trying to tell me something about.  Many times it’s been Papi….”  His voice trailed off, and he lifted the mug to his lips, but his stomach rebelled.  He thought, could my symptoms be any more fucking obvious, and his anger at the stupidity of it all gave him strength.  “The other night it was my father.”

            “Because your father was the one who killed Rosie?” Sascha asked.

            “No.”  Will set his mug down on the table.  “Because I was the one who killed him.”

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will ends the family meeting and finishes his discussion with da Costa.

 

 

 

            Will thought he heard da Costa make a startled noise, and he said quickly, before he could be contradicted by either one, da Costa or Jean-Luc, “I don’t mean that I deliberately killed him, Rose.  As no doubt Papi will tell you – because he was there, at the end, with Dr McBride, when my father died – my father wanted to die.  Dr McBride believed he’d wanted to die all along, and that was coupled with his desire to – I don’t know, manipulate me, I guess – one last time.  But – “ he looked at Jean-Luc, daring him to say differently, “before Papi and Dr McBride arrived, my father threatened me, and I shot him with a phaser.”  He took a breath, because his nostrils were filling with the stench of burned skin.  “So I’m just as responsible for his death as he was – he wouldn’t have survived the phaser burns.”

            “Perhaps,” Jean-Luc said quietly, “Will, we should tell the whole story before we reach its end.”

            “It’s late,” Will said, “and you’re tired.  And regardless of how I was overruled earlier, I’m making the command decision for the family now.  You need to rest, or tomorrow will be too much for you.  The rest of the story can wait, as far as I’m concerned.  Or maybe Captain da Costa will spend the night, and the kids can ask him whatever questions they need immediate answers to.”

            “I can drive Captain da Costa to the hotel,” Locarno offered. 

            “Will,” Jean-Luc began, “I don’t think –“

            “I outrank every single person in this room,” Will said, feeling his jaw began to clench, “including you, Captain Picard.”

            “That’s true, Papi,” Sascha said.  “I learned very early not to debate the Admiral when he’d made a command decision.”

            Jean-Guy said, “Rose is the only one who can get away with that.”

            “That’s simply not true,” Rose protested.  “I got in far more trouble with the Admiral than either one of you ever did.”

            “And we’re back to the bickering again,” Graeme added.  “Perhaps retiring from this now is the best idea.”

            Will nodded at Grae.  “I’m not up to cooking dinner,” he said.  “I’ve had enough, I think.  I’d like to take a shower, and I’d like Papi to rest, and I have some work I need to finish.  So dinner is up to the four of you.  You can use the replicator to fix something for everyone – or maybe, Grae, you and Mr Locarno can go into town and bring something back.  There’s an English fish and chips place for the tourists that’s open, and I think you might find that the Miquel’s _comida_ would fix something for all of us.  I’m not really hungry, but I expect Papi will be.”

            “What do you think, Serge?” Grae asked.  “Replicator for everyone or take-away?”

            “Definitely take-away,” Rose decided.  “I’ll come with you, Grae.  Sascha and Jean-Guy can help Dad and Papi.”

            “I can drop you off on our way,” Locarno said to da Costa.

            Da Costa stood, and said, “Why don’t you let me walk with you upstairs, Will?  You’ll wait for me, won’t you, Ensign?”

            “Of course, sir,” Locarno answered, also standing.

            “Come on, Jean-Luc.”  Will rose, and held his hand out.  “Let’s get you up, before you get too stiff.”

            Jean-Luc took Will’s hand, and allowed Will to help him up and off of the sofa.  “I’m afraid it’s too late,” he complained.  “Stiff already.”

            “I can help you into the shower, and then I’ll rub your muscles for you,” Will offered.  “Is it your hips again?”

            “And knees,” Jean-Luc replied.

            “All right, old man,” Will said.  “Just lean onto me.  When we remodel the house, Locarno, we need to do something about the stairs.”

            “Or give in to the inevitable and move down to the first floor,” Jean-Luc said.

            Will sighed.  “Are you coming, Joao?” he asked.

            He had his arm around Jean-Luc as he walked him out of the dayroom and down the hallway to the stairs.  “Can you do this?” he said in a low voice.  “Or would you like me to carry you up?”

            “I can still walk up the damned stairs,” Jean-Luc said.

            Will grinned.  “Of course you can, Captain.”

            “Oh, fuck you,” Jean-Luc said.

            “Another phrase I should never have taught you,” Will remarked, and da Costa laughed behind him.  “Easy.  There we go.”

            “Will, I’ve never been violent with you,” Jean-Luc warned, “not once, in all these years, but if you don’t stop….”

            “I’ll let you be violent with me, Jean-Luc,” Will whispered, bending down, “if it will make you feel better.”

            The look Jean-Luc gave him was worth the saying it, and he grinned and hummed a little absently as they took the stairs slowly, one step at a time, with da Costa behind them, in case Jean-Luc slipped.

 

 

            In the bedroom, Will took Jean-Luc into the head while da Costa walked out onto the verandah.  “Would you like me to shower with you?” he asked.

            “No,” Jean-Luc said.  “I’m strong enough, I think, for a quick shower.”

            “All right,” Will agreed.  “Need help with your shirt?”

            “If you don’t mind.”  Jean-Luc sat down on the toilet to pull off his socks.

            “Not dizzy?” Will asked.  “It’s still a couple hours before you take your medication.”  He unbuttoned Jean-Luc’s shirt, and helped him stand up.  He rubbed his hand over the wisps of Jean-Luc’s hair in the back, and then pulled Jean-Luc to him, kissing him on the top of his head.

            “Your Mr da Costa is on the verandah,” Jean-Luc said.

            “I know.”  He was unbuckling Jean-Luc’s belt and then he was on his knees.

            “ _Guy_ ,” Jean-Luc said.

            “Shhh.”

            “Oh, God.  _Je t’aime, Guy_ ,” Jean-Luc breathed, his hands in Will’s hair.

            It never took that long anymore, and Will stood up and wrapped his arms around Jean-Luc.  “I love you,” he said.  “Now into the shower.”

            “I could return the favour,” Jean-Luc offered, but Will turned the shower on, and helped Jean-Luc step over the small step inside. 

            “I’m just going to put your clothes in the laundry,” Will said, and he sorted Jean-Luc’s clothes, and grabbed Jean-Luc’s pyjamas and robe.  He pulled over the door, and helped Jean-Luc step out, wrapping the dove-grey body towel around him.  “Here,” he murmured, rubbing Jean-Luc’s fragile skin softly.  He was still humming, and realised it was the motif from his symphony.

            “You’re happy,” Jean-Luc said, and Will realised, as he helped Jean-Luc into his pyjama bottoms, that it was true.  He hadn’t said half of what should have been said, but he felt – lighter, somehow.  As if he’d been carrying, he thought with surprise, Mrs Troi’s suitcase all these years and had suddenly put it down.

            “Yeah,” he replied.  “Stupid, isn’t it?”

            Jean-Luc flashed him his brilliant smile.  “Profoundly stupid,” he agreed.

            “If you’ll lie down on the bed, Mr Picard,” Will told him, grinning, “I’ll take care of those stiff muscles of yours.” 

            “You have already done that, Mr Riker,” Jean-Luc answered, lying down.  “Rather nicely too, I might add.”

            Will laughed.  “Da Costa is just outside,” he reminded, rubbing the analgesic into Jean-Luc’s hips, gently, as always, so as not to tear or bruise Jean-Luc’s skin.

            “And who,” Jean-Luc returned, peering at him, “do you think helped change our sheets in sickbay?  It certainly wasn’t me _or_ you.” 

            Will ignored him.  “What about your shoulders?” he asked.  “Are you sore there too?”  He’d noticed the bruising on Jean-Luc’s thigh, and he carefully moved around it.  “Would you like some ice for that?”

            “My shoulders are fine,” Jean-Luc replied, his voice muffled by the pillow.  “And no, I don’t think I need ice.”

            “It’s a little swollen,” Will said.

            “After supper, then.”

            “All right.”  He pulled Jean-Luc’s bottoms back into place, and then draped the quilt over him.  “Your tuck-in service, sir,” he said, bending down to kiss Jean-Luc’s cheek.  “I’ll be outside with da Costa for a bit,” he told him, “and then I’ll sit in here and answer my mail.”

            “Mmmmh.”

            Jean-Luc was drifting off, and he kissed him lightly again, and then walked across the room to the French doors.  Da Costa was sitting in one of the deck chairs, working on his padd.

            “Sorry,” Will said, sitting next to him.  “He’s sleeping, now.”

            “It’s no problem, Will.” Da Costa closed out his padd.

            “Taking notes?” Will didn’t look at da Costa, choosing instead to gaze out to sea.  “We may have weather for tomorrow night,” he remarked.

            “You have done well,” da Costa said, and Will was not surprised that da Costa was using McBride’s tone.

            “It’s stupid,” Will told him.

            Da Costa rolled his eyes.  “We don’t have to talk about it,” he said.

            “I don’t need closure?” Will realised his mood was swinging the other way; he was sure da Costa did as well.

            “Do you?” da Costa asked.

            “Fuck you.”

            “Your default position, as always,” da Costa said.

            Will was silent.  There was a fishing boat, coming in, and he recognised it as one from the marina.  He watched the gulls circling around it, the spray off the bow in the light chop.  He heard the sound of the engine change as it eased into the no wake zone.

            “Actually,” Will said, “I was feeling okay, until I thought I had to talk to you.”  He paused, and then he corrected, “No, that’s not quite true.  I was feeling happy.  In fact, Jean-Luc made a joke about my being happy.”

            “You don’t have to speak to me, Will,” da Costa repeated.

            “I know that, Joao,” he answered.  “I guess I felt I was done.  I’d let a trickle go, and maybe the kids don’t want to know anymore, and I’m off the hook.”  He glanced down at da Costa.  “But you’ve never let me off the hook, have you?  Not you, and not McBride.”

            “Have you ever let yourself off the hook, William?” da Costa asked.  “ _Because I was the one who killed him._ ”

            “I did kill him,” Will said.

            “Yes,” da Costa agreed.  “You shot him, with a phaser, at point-blank range, in self-defence.  He could have surrendered at that point, and he would have received lifesaving medical treatment from Dr Crusher.” Da Costa paused, as if he expected Will to interrupt him, but Will was looking out to sea.  “And when both your lives were hanging in the balance, he gave you permission to let him go.  Because he knew he was dying.  Because he knew it was over.  Because he’d told you what he needed to tell you.  Because he’d decided, perhaps after that first communication with Jean-Luc, that his time was up.”

            The windjammer was back out there, her sails luffing against the wind.  Obviously she was a day sailor, out of Barcelona.  If he squinted he could see them running up the lines to the mainsail, tightening her sheets.  She came about, and the sails tightened, her bow dipping towards the sea.

            “You didn’t say, Will, _because I killed him in self-defence_.”

            “I keep having to do the same work.”

            “Yes.”

            “It’s insidious,” Will said, still following the windjammer with his eyes.  “I think I’m done.  I do the work.  I _do_ the work,” he repeated.

            “I know you do.”

            “And it’s gone and then I have to do it all over again.”

            “I know.”

            “I don’t have time for this shit now.”

            “You will have less time later,” da Costa said.

            “He thought I was bringing up the incident.”

            “Were you?”

            “No.”  Will stood and walked to the railing.  He bent over the spyglass and adjusted it so he could see the sailors on the schooner.  “I don’t know.”

            “There is,” da Costa remarked, “a gap between ‘no’ and ‘I don’t know.’”

            “I made a joke about Mr Locarno, and he said I was bringing up old stuff.”

            “And were you?”

            “I already answered that question.”

            “No, Will,” da Costa said, rising to stand beside him, “you didn’t.” 

            He let go of the spyglass.

            “She is beautiful,” da Costa remarked.

            “We’re going to Greece,” Will said.  “It’s my anniversary present to him.  Do you know in all these years he’d never been to Greece?”

            “He’ll love that,” da Costa agreed.

            “We’re sailing through the islands,” Will continued.  “We’ll be gone about ten days or so.  It will be,” he added, “our last trip together, I expect.”

            “Will you be able to handle him?” da Costa asked. 

            “Ensign Locarno has agreed to come with us.”

            “I see.  And your remark about him?  Will?”

            “It was just a thoughtless joke,” Will said.

            “I rather doubt that.”

            “Why are you pushing me on all of this?” Will demanded, turning to stare at da Costa.  “Joao?  What the fuck is the therapeutic reason?”

            “Why are you having symptoms, Will?” da Costa asked, his voice calm.

            “Because I’m under a lot of stress.” Will looked away.  “Even with the time I took off, there’s work piling up.  Not just from HQ, but from my students as well.”

            Da Costa was silent, watching the windjammer.

            “Because Jean-Luc is dying.  I lose a little more of him each day.”  He waited for da Costa to say something; anything.  His clenched his fist and then pounded the railing.  “Goddamn it, da Costa.  What is it I’m supposed to say?”

            “What do you need to say, Will?” da Costa asked.

            “He left me once before and he’s leaving me again,” Will answered, and he turned away.

            “Your life has been filled with loss.” Da Costa placed his hand on Will’s shoulder.  “Your mother.  Rosie.  Your childhood.  Even your father’s death was a profound loss, Will.”

            “He said I was conflating when he left me with what’s happening now.”

            “And is he right?”

            “It’s stupid,” Will said.

            “Only,” da Costa told him, “if you don’t deal with it.”

            “I don’t want to deal with it.”  He let da Costa’s hand remain on his shoulder.

            “I know.”

            “The kids are back with dinner.” He shrugged da Costa’s hand away, and turned back to the sea.  The windjammer was gone, having dropped her sails and motored into port.

            “Yes.”

            “We’ve got an extra room, if you want to stay,” Will said.  “Otherwise, Locarno can drive you back to Les Fonts.”

            “I’ll stay,” da Costa said.

            “Thanks.”  He looked back through the door and saw that Jean-Luc was waking.  “I’ll do the work,” he said.

            Da Costa nodded.  “I know you will,” he agreed.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will dreams one more time of Rosie, and then has an early morning conversation with his daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In A Million Sherds, Kyle Riker kills a kitten in front of his son William, which sets up the murder of Rosie Kalugin.

21. 

 

 

 

            Supper had been sandwiches and soup and salads from Miquel’s _comida_ , and both he and Jean-Luc had managed to eat a little.  He knew Jean-Luc was too tired, really, to eat, and his stomach was – it wasn’t really hurting, but maybe he was afraid it would begin to.  If da Costa noticed he wasn’t eating, it wasn’t mentioned, and Rose took the occasion to formally announce her news, much to the surprise of Jean-Guy.

            “I’m going to be an uncle!” he declared and then he glanced at his brother and Papi.  “You already knew.  I’m always the last to know anything.”

            “On that rather sour note,” Will said, standing, “Papi and I are retiring early.  If you’ll help us up the stairs, Ensign, you can then go.  Captain da Costa will be staying the night.  Sascha,” Will added, supporting Jean-Luc as he rose from his chair, “if you’ll make up the guest bed in the library for Mr da Costa?  Please.”

            “Aye, sir,” Sascha replied.

            “Am I ordering everyone around again?” Will asked as they walked, slowly, down the hallway.

            “Need you ask?” Jean-Luc answered.

            Will thought he heard Locarno make a noise behind him, but when he turned, Locarno’s face was set.  “Are you certain you aren’t Portuguese?” Will asked.  They’d reached the stairs and Will said, “My offer still stands, Mr Picard.”

            “You will put your back out,” Jean-Luc said, “and I can still manage the damned stairs.  Mr Riker.”

            “If you’ll support the other side of him, then, Locarno.  One step at a time, old man.”

            “My offer still stands as well,” Jean-Luc responded.

            “Looking forward to it, Mr Picard.  Still sure you want this job?” Will asked.

            “I just hope,” Locarno answered, grinning, “that I am equal to the task.”

 

 

            There was still a little swelling around the contusion on Jean-Luc’s thigh.

            “I forgot the ice,” Will told him.  “Do you want clean pyjamas, since you had supper in those?”

            “No,” Jean-Luc said, “I did my best not to spill.”

            Will said, “Not quite feeble yet?”

            “I think,” Jean-Luc replied, “I could use the ice.  And if you could rub that hip again.  It’s very sore.”

            “Let’s take your medication first,” Will suggested.  “Do you want me to ask Rose for pain medication?”

            Jean-Luc sat on the edge of the bed, and Will pulled him in, letting his head rest on his chest.  They stayed like that, Will’s arms around Jean-Luc, Jean-Luc’s face pressed against his shirt.

            “Will.”

            “Yes?”

            “Are you going to finish telling them?”

            He sighed.  “Should I get Rose?”

            “Is this a negotiation?” Jean-Luc looked up, and there was the hint of a smile around his lips.

            Will considered.  “Doesn’t seem like a fair exchange,” he said.  “You take the pain medication and I change my relationship with our kids.”

            “You have already changed your relationship,” Jean-Luc reminded him.  “You have taken away some of their innocence, but you’ve replaced it with understanding.”

            “Who said you could be so smart?”

            “You,” Jean-Luc said, and now he was smiling, “already knew I was smart when you married me.”

            “No wriggle room at all,” Will said.  He kissed the top of Jean-Luc’s head.

            “None.”

            “And all I get is you taking pain medication in return?”

            “I could manage other things, if I took the pain medication.”

            “In that case,” Will said, “I’ll go get Rose.”

 

 

            He fully expected to be back in the woods, running along the path, but instead he found himself sitting on the bank of the creek with Rosie, his feet dangling in the icy water, listening to an eagle cry and the dogs playing.

            “Hello, Rosie,” he said.

            She’d been looking at something in the water, and when she looked up at him, her eyes were dark and she was giving him her Rosie-grin.  He sighed, because he’d been afraid that she would be something else, but she was not.  She was just Rosie, and he kicked his feet so that the water splashed up at her.  She laughed, and then she splashed him back; the ravens were chasing the eagle, the crisp scent of pine was in the air, and the sunlight was reflecting off the water.

            “I miss you,” he said, and she took his hand and held it, the way she had on that very last day.

            “Why?” she asked.  “I’ve been here all along.  You’ve always known where to find me, William.”

            “Have I?”  Her hand was warm and brown, and he enjoyed the feeling of her stubby fingers laced in his slender ones.

            “Of course,” she answered.  “There’s a trout, look.”

            He watched the cutthroat suspended in the current, the reds and greens flashing, and then Rosie splashed again, and the fish was gone.

            “I named my daughter after you,” he said. 

            “I’m glad you have a daughter.” 

            “I’m sorry, Rosie,” he said.  “I’m sorry,” and then he was awake, and he could hear Jean-Luc’s soft snore and the rain pattering lightly on the tiled roof.

            He wished he’d been running in the woods.

 

 

 

           

            It was useless, he thought, to try to sleep again, and so he slid slowly out of bed, trying not to disturb Jean-Luc, who was snoring softly.  It was so close to the time when Jean-Luc always woke, and he hoped Jean-Luc was exhausted enough to continue sleeping; he was certainly sound asleep now.  He padded into the head, eyeing himself tiredly in the mirror.  He’d be damned, he thought, if he’d go to the party tonight looking as if he were suffering again.  There was shit one could replicate to cover the dark circles under his eyes and he was guessing Jean-Guy might be the one to know what kind.  He splashed water on his face and ran his hands through his hair.  He’d take a shower later, with Jean-Luc, maybe; now he just wanted to creep into the kitchen and make a pot of coffee.  He figured he could get two cups in before da Costa was awake.

            Rose was on the patio with a cup of tea, a sweater wrapped around her shoulders, even though the air was mild and there was no wind.  He sat down beside her silently and sipped his coffee.

            “Nauseous?” he asked her.  Mercè’s – or was it Laia’s? – cat was in the back of the garden, peering into his pond.  He clicked his tongue at it and it glared at him with coppery-coloured eyes before stalking off, its tail like a flag.

            “Do you remember,” Rose asked, her voice still edged with sleep, “when I begged and begged you for a kitten, and you said no, and you would never tell me why?”

            “I thought Papi told you why,” he said, after a moment.  His hand had begun to shake and he set the mug down on the patio table.

            “Papi said you were allergic to cats.”  Rose didn’t look at him.

            “I couldn’t have told you, Rosie,” he said.  “You were just a little girl.”

            “No,” Rose agreed.  “But I hated you for months, afterwards.”

            “I know.”

            “You think there is a genetic component to what your father was, and my baby is at risk?”  She did look at him, then.

            “Da Costa says it’s much more complicated than that.”

            “That’s true.  It is, in the literature.  I will have to read Dr McBride’s paper.”

            He shrugged.  “He was different, right from the start.” He reached for the coffee, but then didn’t pick it up.  “Even as a baby, according to my aunts.  His older sisters.  I met them, twice.  They had husbands; families.  Careers.”

            “It didn’t stop them, then,” Rose said.

            “No.”

            “And it didn’t stop you and Papi?”  It was a question.  A plea for reassurance.

            He gazed at her, his face in feminine, perhaps; his eyes, bright blue, the curls he might have had if he hadn’t sported a military cut most of his life.  If he’d let his hair grow long, like Jean-Guy’s.  His jaw, softer; the cleft in his chin which had so delighted Jean-Luc when Rose had been born.  He remembered tucking her under his chin, in those few weeks when Jean-Luc had left him, inhaling that warm, soapy fragrance that babies had, wondering if he would ever have the chance to breathe in her father’s scent again, even then not allowing himself to cry.  He would not cry; he hadn’t then, and he wouldn’t now.

            “No, Rosie,” he said, and he could see her brown skin, and her dark brown eyes, and her sly Rosie-grin which was only for him.  “I’d always thought – “ He stopped, to search for his words, and then he found them.  “I knew how messed up I was,” he said.  “I’d had a good thing with Deanna – the best – and I’d thrown it away because I couldn’t articulate to her how fucked up I felt inside.”  He paused, and then he continued, “But I always thought somehow I could figure out how to live with what I was, and that at some point in my life I could still get married and have kids.  Have a life that was normal, even in Starfleet.  Papi and I – we worked very hard, Rose.  He had his fears about having children – even though they weren’t the same as mine.  But that one of you would turn out to be my father – that was never one of our fears.”

            “You were afraid you would continue the cycle of abuse?” Rose asked.

            He felt as if all his air had been stolen.

            “Dad?”  She was looking at him, this odd mixture of daughter and professional.

            He nodded, his words having fled.

            “And Papi’s issue?”

            He could breathe again.  “Papi was four when his brother Christophe-Henri died.  He always thought it was his fault, because they’d been playing near an irrigation ditch.  And he’d been told it was his fault, by his brother Robert.  He didn’t actually remember the accident, just what happened after.”

            “Like Sascha and me putting Jean-Guy in a box and threatening to throw him out an airlock.”

            “Yes,” Will said.  “Exactly like that.”

            “And all these years you’ve denied yourself a pet.”  She finished her tea and set the mug on the table.

            He was silent, wondering if Jean-Luc were awake.  Wondering if Jean-Luc had tried to get up again and had fallen in the head; was calling for him now.

            “Mr Locarno is here,” Sascha said from the doorway.  “Shall I send him upstairs to check on Papi?”

            “Please,” Will answered, and Sascha turned away.  Will could hear him talking to Locarno, and then to da Costa.

            “Do you think there’s any risk to my baby?” Rose asked.

            “No, sweetie,” he said, taking her hand.  “I don’t.”

            Locarno was at the door. “Shall I tell the Ambassador you’re coming back upstairs?”

            “Tell him,” Will replied, rising, “that it’s our anniversary, and I’ll be bringing him his breakfast in bed.”

            “Aye, sir.”  Locarno walked away.

            “I hope,” Rose said, and when she looked at Will this time she was smiling, “that when Grae and I are old we are just like you.”

            Will held her, kissing her head, wishing she still had that warm, soapy scent she’d had.  Then he grinned, because next year he’d be holding a grandchild.

            “Of course you will,” he promised her.  “Old and cranky and losing your hair.”

            She grinned; not his grin, not Rosie’s grin, but hers – _Rose’s_ \-- grin.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cochrane Day dawns, and Will and Jean-Luc exchange anniversary gifts.

22. 

 

 

 

            “Morning,” he said to Jean-Luc as he entered their room, carrying the tray.  He felt a little silly carrying it, because Rose had taken over the arranging of everything on it, including a posy of sweet-smelling freesias from their garden.  He set it down on the night table, nodding at Locarno.  “It’s quite mild out,” he told Jean-Luc.  “Would you like to sit on the verandah?”

            Jean-Luc took in the flowers and his lip turned upwards, just a bit.  “No masses of narcissi?” he asked.

            Will rolled his eyes.  “The flowers are from Rose,” he said.  “No fog this morning, then.”

            “I did mistake Locarno for da Costa,” Jean-Luc admitted.  “Otherwise, no.”

            Will glanced at Locarno, who shrugged.  “I’ve thought perhaps da Costa cloned himself or something,” he agreed.  “Maybe Mr Locarno is his secret love child.”

            Jean-Luc snorted in surprise.  “You’ve been reading the Victorians again, Mr Riker?” he asked.  “Breakfast on the verandah is fine, as long as I’m not wearing that damned jumper.”

            “You can eat out there nude for all I care, Mr Picard,” Will answered.

            “Only if you join me,” Jean-Luc returned.

            “I think, Mr Locarno,” Will said, “that perhaps your presence is required elsewhere.”

            Locarno stood smartly.  “Aye, sir,” he said.  “I’m sure Commander Riker-Picard could use my help.”

            “He swears he’s not Portuguese,” Will commented, after Locarno had left.  “Says he’s Swiss or something.”

            “He’s lying,” Jean-Luc answered, sitting on the edge of the bed.  “He has too much personality to be Swiss.”

            “Those old boundaries die hard,” Will murmured, wrapping his arms around Jean-Luc.  “Happy anniversary, old man,” he said.

            “ _Bon anniversaire, mon cher_ ,” Jean-Luc replied, kissing him.  “I will wear my robe, I think.”

            “And I was hoping you’d strip,” Will said, walking into the head for Jean-Luc’s robe.  He grabbed the robe off its hook on the back of the door.

            “Come back to bed, then.”  Jean-Luc’s voice was muffled, and when Will walked out of the head, Jean-Luc had already removed his pyjama top and pushed the tray aside.  “Why were you up so early anyway?”

            “I’m not allowed to get up early?” Will found himself grinning, and he draped Jean-Luc’s robe over the armchair.

            Jean-Luc slipped out of his bottoms, and it was clear he had other things on his mind.

            “We have a house full of people,” Will protested, even as he was removing his robe.

            “ _You_ sent Locarno away with a flea in his ear,” Jean-Luc replied, standing, “and I’m fairly sure the message will have been understood by all.”

            Will left his pyjamas on the floor.  “The children will be traumatised,” he murmured.  Jean-Luc looked and felt frail, but his hands were warm and strong.

            “The children,” he said, “will be too busy to care.  Come here, you,” and while their lovemaking was, after thirty-six years, familiar, that didn’t mean it wasn’t tender, or heartfelt.

 

 

            “Your tea is cold,” Will said.  Jean-Luc was resting his head on Will’s chest, which was not quite as hairy as it had been, once.

            “Rose is right,” Jean-Luc replied. 

            “About what?” Will asked.

            “Needing a replicator up here.”

            “Yes,” Will agreed.  “Although you are the one who didn’t want the house changed from the way it was.”

            “I never imagined,” Jean-Luc said, raising his head and looking at Will, “that I would grow this old, and become this feeble, and have this damned illness.”

            “I think,” Will said, slowly, “that perhaps we both expected never to survive.”

            Jean-Luc was quiet, and then he remarked, “I kept trying to die.  You kept fucking rescuing me.”

            Will thought he might piss the bed.  “My prostate,” he said, dignified, “is not prepared to take remarks like that, Jeannot.”

            “Your prostate is just fine,” Jean-Luc responded, nipping Will’s skin.

            “You are a dirty old man,” Will responded.

            Jean-Luc shrugged.  “ _C’est vrai_ ,” he replied.  “But I could use a cup of tea, now,” he added.  He sat up, and reached for his mug, even though the tea was cold.  “Why,” he asked, “have you got your padd on the tray?”

            “Ah,” Will answered.  “Why don’t you boot it up and see?”

            “If it’s pictures of narcissi, William…”

            “You give me far too much credit, Jean-Luc.  That never even occurred to me.”

            “That’s good, Guy, because I’d hate to be one of those old men who uses senility as an excuse to start throwing punches.”

            “That’s the third time you’ve threatened me,” Will said.  “I can’t decide whether you’re finally willing to mess around, or whether I need to find you a fencing partner.”

            Jean-Luc eyed him, and Will grinned, waiting for Jean-Luc to boot up the padd.

            “What is this?” Jean-Luc asked, as if he were puzzled.

            Will sat up and placed his arm behind Jean-Luc’s back, drawing him closer.  “What does it say it is?” he asked, gently.

            “Am I well enough to do this, Guy?” Jean-Luc placed the padd back down on the tray.

            “We discussed going away, remember?” Will asked.

            Jean-Luc sighed, but it was a small one.  “I do remember,” he answered, “but this is so much more than what I’d suggested….”

            “Everything is already done for us,” Will promised.  “It’s the type of holiday, that, while we’re sailing, we don’t have to do a damned thing.  Just sit on the deck and enjoy ourselves, and disembark for a day in port if we choose to.”  He paused, and then he said, “Rose and Dr da Costa and Dr Montalvo think you are okay to do this.  Locarno will be coming with us, and when we arrive in Athens, we can retake our vows.”

            “On the Parthenon?” Jean-Luc wasn’t smiling, but his dark eyes were amused.

            “Wherever you wish, Jean-Luc,” Will answered, holding him tightly.  “Happy anniversary.”

            “Whatever made you think of this?” Jean-Luc asked.  “Guy?”

            Will shrugged.  “I’ve known you over half my life, and you never once mentioned going to Greece.  Seemed a little odd, for someone so invested in antiquities.  I talked to Marie – and she told me what happened.  So I thought better late than never – and we’ll have great food and good music.”

            “It was one of those things,” Jean-Luc said, “that I thought I would never forgive Robert for.  Now I wish he were here, so that we could go together.”

            “You had,” Will said, kissing Jean-Luc’s head, “the chance to make up, and get to really know one another.  And I’m sure, Jeannot, if Robert were still with us, he’d be more than happy to come along.”

            “ _Tu es mon garçon doux_ ,” Jean-Luc said.  “It’s a wonderful present, Guy.”

            “I think we both need a shower,” Will said, “and then let’s go downstairs and make you another pot of tea.”

            “Yes, and we need to hurry,” Jean-Luc replied, sitting up. 

            “What on earth for?” Will asked.  “Our uniforms were taken care of by Sascha, and Rose assured me that we don’t have to do anything at all today, except be driven to Les Fonts when it’s time.”  He paused and then he said, “I’m not talking about my father today, Jean-Luc.”

            “I wouldn’t ask you to, _mon cher_ ,” Jean-Luc agreed.  “The children will still be here tomorrow, as will Mr da Costa.”  He pushed the quilt down, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.  “But I am expecting a communication, and I’d prefer us to be dressed when it comes in.”

            “A communication from whom?” Will slid over and stood up.  “Need some help?” he asked, offering his hand.  “Still sore?”

            Jean-Luc stood up slowly.  “Not too bad,” he answered.  “A hot shower and I’ll be fine.”

            Will followed him into the head and turned on the shower.  “You didn’t answer my question,” he reminded Jean-Luc.

            “No,” Jean-Luc agreed.  “And I haven’t given you your anniversary present, either.  Are we showering together, or taking turns?”

            “Definitely together.”  Will stepped into the shower, and helped Jean-Luc take the small step in.  “I don’t much care for surprises, Jean-Luc,” he said seriously, as he gently washed Jean-Luc’s chest.

            “Ha.  You are a terrible liar, William.  You always have been.  You’re dying of curiosity, and I’m not going to tell you.”

            “I’ll wash your back,” Will offered.

            “You always wash my back,” Jean-Luc replied. 

            “What happened to my negotiating skills, I wonder?” Will said.  “That’s the second negotiation I’ve lost to you.”

            “You were always much better at blowing things up,” Jean-Luc told him, “a skill you don’t get to use too often anymore.”

            Will was still smiling as they walked slowly down the stairs, his hand on Jean-Luc’s waist, ready to catch him if he fell.

 

 

           

            They’d finished breakfast, which they’d eaten on the patio, with da Costa and Jean-Guy, who’d been left to _entertain_ , he said, rolling his eyes, Papi and Dad while Sascha and Rose were at Les Fonts.  Will walked with Jean-Luc down to the pond to feed the fish, and then it was time for Jean-Luc to spend his hour in the library, reading.  Except that da Costa and Jean-Guy were inexplicably invited into the library too, where Locarno had set up the vidscreen to receive the incoming communication.

            “Sit down, Will,” Jean-Luc said, guiding him to the chair at the desk.

            “What does my anniversary present have to do with da Costa and Jean-Guy?” Will asked, his irritation showing.  “Is this a required viewing?”

            “Hush,” Jean-Luc said.  “You’ll see.”

            The communication came through, and Will was surprised to see that it was his cousin Tom, standing beside the old tribal center.  He wondered where Dmitri was, and then realised that Dmitri and Julia were probably already at Les Fonts.

            “Hey, Will,” Tom said.  “You’re looking good.  Happy anniversary.”

            “Tom,” he replied.  “You look the same.  A little cold, maybe?”  There was still snow on the ground.

            “Not too bad,” Tom answered.  “Almost break-up.  You doing all right?  How’s Jean-Luc?”

            “I am right here, Tom,” Jean-Luc said.  “Doing as well as can be expected.”

            “Who else is there, Will?” Tom was grinning, which Will found disconcerting.

            “You remember our son Jean-Guy,” Will said.  “He’s a little older, I think, than the last time you saw him.  And Ensign Locarno is assigned to us now.  And Captain da Costa, an old friend from the _Enterprise_.”  He’d gone back to Valdez when Jean-Guy was ten; that had been the last time he’d seen his cousins, Tom included.

            “Lot’s happened in ten years, Will,” Tom said.  “You’re going to take a virtual walk with me, Will – I’ve got something I want to show you.”

            Will asked, “Who’s there with you?”

            “Just Mike and Niall,” Tom answered.  “You remember the way.”

            Will nodded, because Tom had turned into the woods, and now he was walking down the path that ran by the creek and then wound past Rosie’s house to the cabin where he’d spent his childhood years in terror.   It was his cabin, bequeathed to him by his mother, but he hadn’t known that; he hadn’t known anything, just that even as he’d worked with McBride and then with da Costa, he hadn’t been able to let go of his fear of that place.  He’d hired someone to keep it standing, why, he didn’t know, and so there it had stood, the cabin and the barn exactly as he’d left it when he’d fled to the Academy in an early admission, an acknowledgement, perhaps, from Starfleet of what they’d owed him.

            Tom was talking about people he knew; Pete and Georgie Kalugin and their families; more Shugak cousins; the tribal gossip about aunties and children and grandchildren.  He wasn’t really listening, because he wasn’t really breathing, watching the interplay of light on the snow and the ice-covered creek, listening to the crunch of Tom’s boots as he walked along.  He felt Jean-Luc’s hand on his shoulder, that calming warmth reminding him to breathe, and he was surprised when he felt Jean-Luc kiss his hair.

            Tom stopped, in front of the Kalugin cabin, where Pete and his wife Lena lived, and where there was a crowd of people – half the village, it seemed – waiting for him.

            “Hey, Will,” Pete said.  “Jean-Luc.  You still with us, Will?”  Pete was grinning, and Will could feel his hands start to shake.

            “We’re right here,” da Costa said softly.  “Take a moment to breathe, Will.”

            “Why are you doing this?” Will turned to Jean-Luc, his eyes filling.  “I don’t want to do this – “

            “Just walk with Tom, _mon cher_ ,” Jean-Luc said.  “You’ll be all right.  I promise.”

            He wiped his eyes, returning to the vidscreen.

            “You ready, William?”  It was Georgie Kalugin speaking.  “We’re all walking with you.  You’ll be okay.”

            Will watched, consciously breathing, taking the air in and letting it blow out, as his family and Rosie’s family walked that last kilometer to his cabin, through the woods, past the salmonberry bushes, away from the creek, into the yard.

            The cabin and the barn were gone.  Instead the Elizaveta C Riker Memorial Library and Rosa Kalugin Tribal Community Center stood in its place, rough-hewn pine and glass glistening in the sun.  To the side were a snow-covered playground and the entrance to the Admiral William T Riker Little League field.

            “Happy anniversary, my love,” Jean-Luc said.

            Will was silent, and then the doors to the centre opened, and the children came tumbling out, some of them in baseball uniforms and some of them in their tribal costumes; the children sang, the children of his cousins and his friends, the ancient welcoming home song of the tribe, to him.  Then Georgie Kalugin said, “When Jean-Luc contacted my mother with this idea four years ago, William, it was what we’d been waiting for, a chance to honour my sister and your mother, a way to give all of us, our whole community, a path to healing.  My mother knew immediately that this is what was needed – to end the tribe’s suffering.  To end yours.”

            “It’s gone now, Guy,” Jean-Luc said, “and it won’t haunt your dreams anymore.  Instead the children will fill this place with laughter, something your mother, and Vera Kalugin, and your Uncle Marty and Auntie Tasya would have wanted – for you, Will.  Mrs Kalugin wanted this for Rosie -- and for you.”  Jean-Luc added, “My only concern was that it would take too long, and I’d forget before it was finished – but Pete and Tom told me in January that the deadline – Cochrane Day – would be met.”

            Will wiped his face with his sleeve.  “You’ve planned this for years,” he said.  He looked at da Costa.  “You knew about this?”

            Da Costa nodded.  “You needed it gone, Will.  It will give you closure.  At last.”

            “I dreamt about her,” Will said, and he didn’t know whether he was telling Jean-Luc, or da Costa, or Rosie’s brothers, or himself.  “She played with me, in my dream, and held my hand.  She was happy.”

            “She was always happy,” Georgie said, remembering, and then he said, “All she ever wanted, William, was for you to be happy, too.  I hope you can be, now.”

            “Come home soon, Will,” his cousin Tom said.  “Bring your kids, if you can, and Jean-Luc.  Maybe sit in the stands and watch a ballgame.  The kids voted to name the team the Titans.”

            “Mrs Kalugin wanted this?” he asked, finally.

            Jean-Luc pulled him in.  “We have all wanted this.”

            “Dad,” Jean-Guy said, “tell them yes.”

            Will looked up.  “Tell them yes what?”  He didn’t know what to think; what to say; what to feel.

            “Papi and I will come with you,” Jean-Guy pressed, and he placed his hand on his father’s arm.  “Tell them,” he urged, “you’ll come home.”

            Will looked at his son, tall and gangly the way he’d been at that age, and then he turned back to Georgie and Pete Kalugin and his cousin Tom, standing in the snow with the warmth of the spring Alaskan sun casting prisms of coloured lights along the eaves of the Rosa Kalugin Tribal Center.

            “Yes,” he agreed, and he’d found not just his words but his voice.  “Yes,” he repeated, “I will come home.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Jean-Luc take the shuttle from McKinley Station and begin their "honeymoon" at the villa in Sitges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Night terrors are a neurological response to the distress of hypervigilance in someone who suffers from PTSD. In an adult, this is quite different from the night terrors one sees in an infant or toddler.

23. 

 

 

            He fiddled with the ring on his finger and suppressed a sigh.  Jean-Luc was reading intently, some Greek or Roman philosopher no doubt, and he didn’t want to disturb him with his fidgetiness.  He shifted in his seat and recrossed his legs, and then he found himself turning the ring on his finger again.  He’d already been chased out of the cockpit by the shuttle pilot, a lieutenant who clearly thought brass were transported to be his personal burdens; Will, surprised, wondered when he’d stopped being a pilot and had become “brass.”  He’d offered to pilot the shuttle himself; they could have taken the captain’s yacht for this flight, and that at least would have been fun.  But they’d transported admirals to McKinley Station – Admiral Haden and Admiral Laidlaw, catching the shuttle to San Francisco – and there was the admiral stationed at McKinley, who’d informed them that they were being transported to Paris by his personal pilot.  And that, Will thought, was that.

            He’d brought his padd; there were still refit orders; there were thank-you notes for all the stuff they’d been given as wedding presents, and to all the guests who’d attended, but the truth was that anxiety had been pooling in his gut since they’d wakened, and he simply didn’t have the focus or the attention span to do much of anything.  What he needed to do, he thought, was run, his go-to activity when he was feeling this way, agitated and out-of-sorts.  

            It was all so stupid anyway.  He had enough self-awareness to acknowledge what he was feeling along with its stupidity, whereas before he would have just chastised himself for the stupidity.  He’d never really spent any significant amount of time alone with Jean-Luc, just the two of them.  They didn’t vacation together – he couldn’t imagine anything more boring than digging for potsherds – and there had been all those years when he’d only acknowledged his feelings for Jean-Luc in the middle of the night when he was sure Deanna, who was next-door to him, was asleep.  As for Jean-Luc, for the past few years he’d begun to treat him more like a much-younger brother than a friend, and that wasn’t the role Will wanted to play in Jean-Luc’s life.  So their time together, once their relationship had begun, had been centered around his illness and his recovery, and then running the _D_ in the aftermath of what had happened on Betazed, while preparing for what was obviously going to be some sort of war.  The only time he’d ever really spent alone in Jean-Luc’s company without the crew had been when they’d been kidnapped by that crazy Vulcan, and when Jean-Luc had accompanied him to the court-martial of Erik Pressman.

            So it was stupid, and thinking it was stupid wasn’t helpful, he knew it wasn’t helpful, but what the hell was he supposed to do?  He didn’t know, and so he was stuck, back where he’d started, fiddling with the ring on his finger, trying not to watch Jean-Luc read his book, wishing he had the guts to just pull rank on the admiral’s goddamned personal pilot and fly the shuttle himself.

            “William,” Jean-Luc said, still behind his book.

            “Sir?” he answered, and his frustration bumped itself up another notch.  They were married now, so why the hell did he always respond with “sir”?

            Jean-Luc placed his copy of Euclid or Cicero or whoever the hell it was on the bench beside him.  “Why don’t you come here?”

            He shrugged.  “We’re almost there,” he answered, adding, “And we’re in uniform.”

            “William,” Jean-Luc repeated.  “I’m not suggesting we make love in the back of the shuttle.  I’m just asking you to sit beside me.”

            He stood up, ducking his head even though the shuttle ceiling wasn’t low enough to bump him, and sat beside Jean-Luc.

            “Dr McBride said something to me last night,” Jean-Luc began.

            “If I have to do therapy on our honeymoon, we might as well turn around and go back to the _Enterprise_.”

            “You _are_ out of sorts,” Jean-Luc said.  “I could read you a chapter from my book,” he offered, his lip turning up slightly. 

            Will laughed, the tension easing out of his shoulders.  “Bore my anxiety away?” he asked.

            “If it works,” Jean-Luc replied.

            “Who is it you’re reading, anyway?” He glanced at the spine of the book and then rolled his eyes.  “You’d have a hard time waking me once we landed.”

            “Since neither one of us got much sleep,” Jean-Luc remarked, “I have no doubt of that.”

            “Sirs.”  The lieutenant stood at the command doors.  “ETA is seven minutes.”

            “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Jean-Luc acknowledged.

            “Sir.”

            The lieutenant abandoned them, and Jean-Luc said, “You won’t tell me what the issue is?”

            He sighed.  “There’s no _issue_ , Jean-Luc.  I’ve spent the last year of my life in constant anxiety.  You know this.”

            “What I know, William,” Jean-Luc replied, “is, as your Dr McBride remarked to me, the only time in the past year you have been off our ship is when you stole a shuttle to confront your father.  Hardly a pleasant experience.  In fact, this is the first time you’ve been allowed leave, on your own recognizance, no minder, no therapy, no hypo sprays, since your symptoms began.”

            He swallowed, because he hadn’t even consciously been aware that it was true.  He’d been worried about how he and Jean-Luc would connect, without duty, without illness, without the ship to tether them – and Jean-Luc was reading it as some sort of anxietal (was that even a word?) opposite of claustrophobia – agoraphobia?  Was that it?

No minder, no therapy, no meds, no McBride.

            “He’s not _my_ Dr McBride,” he said automatically.

            “No, of course not.  And we are here, at last.”  Jean-Luc stood up, and handed Will his travelling case from the storage bin.  He grabbed his own and straightened his tunic.

            “Paris terminal, Captain, Commander,” the lieutenant announced.  “Thank you for flying McKinley Station,” and, surprisingly, he grinned.

            “Our pleasure, Lieutenant,” Jean-Luc responded, as if allusions to twenty-first century flights were commonplace.  “We shall see you, no doubt, on the return voyage, unless Commander Riker is able to bully his way into flying your shuttle himself.”

            “If Commander Riker is looking for a job,” the lieutenant said, still grinning, “we could always use another pilot.  Brass exhaustion takes its toll.”

            “Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Will asked.  “ _Brass exhaustion_.  When did I become brass?”

            “When you became First Officer of the _Enterprise_ ,” Jean-Luc explained.  “It was all downhill from there, I’m afraid.”

            They stepped off the shuttle into the Paris terminal and Jean-Luc said, walking briskly through the sea of uniforms, “The shuttle to Barcelona is this way.  However, we can stay overnight here, if this is going to be too much travelling for you.”

            “I’m fine, Jean-Luc,” he answered irritably, and Jean-Luc glanced up at him, as if he were trying to ascertain if it were true.  There was no point, he thought, in trying to explain to Jean-Luc that pushing him on this was only going to make him more anxious; better to just ignore it, and so he followed Jean-Luc, head down, narrowing the sudden stimulation as much as he could.

            They arrived at the Barcelona platform, which was likewise busy, but in a smaller, more orderly way; most of the uniforms in the waiting room were science blues, perhaps, Will thought, a quieter, more orderly bunch anyway.  Still, there was a sudden straightening and acknowledgment of brass entering the waiting room; several ensigns and lieutenants stood automatically as he and Jean-Luc walked in.  Jean-Luc nodded, the sort of gesture that only he could pull off, and walked up to the dispatcher’s office, leaving Will the choice to take the last seat or to stand at the bay, next to several previously talkative ensigns.

            He separated himself a little, and then set his travel case on the floor.  He’d glanced around the room, just in case there was someone he had to acknowledge, and then gazed back at Jean-Luc who’d found someone he knew.  He wondered if perhaps Jean-Luc might have preferred to spend the night in Paris, but he had no evidence of that; just his own anxiety, as always.  It would probably be awkward, he thought, as all of Jean-Luc’s haunts were spent with former lovers, Phillipa Louvois and whatever that crazy scientist’s wife’s name had been.  And his own aunts were here – he suddenly remembered that, and then wondered why he’d forgotten.  How much had they been told, about his father’s death?  Dr McBride had suggested at some point he should meet them, but he in no way felt ready for that.  He couldn’t imagine what the female versions of his father would look like, and then he shook his head, because why he should be dwelling on his father at all was a mystery.

            Would the past ever cease to haunt him?

 

 

            The trip to Barcelona was quick and efficient, and over in twenty minutes.  They’d shared the shuttle with medical officers attending some conference at the research facility there, and it was the first he realised that Starfleet Medical had an important facility in Catalunya.  Debarking at yet another shuttle terminal, Will was surprised to see that there was an ensign waiting for them at the gate.

            “Captain Picard,” the ensign said, her green eyes a remarkable contrast to her coffee-coloured skin.  “Commander Riker.  Captain Vana thought you might appreciate some assistance in finding your accommodations, and then in driving you to Sitges in the morning.”

            “That is very thoughtful of him,” Jean-Luc replied, and Will could see by the angle of his shoulders just exactly how thoughtful it was.  “We’d intended to drive on to Sitges this evening, however.”

            “Captain Vana suggested, since it’s late, that you might be more comfortable spending the night here,” the ensign said, and Will could see that she’d been briefed that there might be opposition.  “The captain was concerned that your villa in Sitges might not be ready for you.”  She paused, as if expecting another objection from Jean-Luc, and then she added, “He’s arranged for the VIP suite for you tonight, sir.  Sirs.”

            He could see that Jean-Luc was torn between agreeing, because he still thought Will was over-stimulated, and arguing for autonomy from meddlesome desk-bound captains.  He smiled at the ensign, acknowledging the difficulty of captains in general, and said, “We could offer a compromise, sir.”

            “And what would that be, Number One?” Jean-Luc wasn’t smiling – not in front of an ensign – but Will could see he was amused.

            “We’ll take the VIP treatment tonight, as courtesy to Captain Vana,” Will suggested, “providing we drive our own air car to Sitges, as we’d originally planned.”

            “Failing flying the shuttle, you still get to pilot the air car?”

            Will grinned at the ensign.  “Something like that, yes, sir,” he answered.

            “Make it so,” Jean-Luc agreed, and Will felt like laughing when he saw the ensign give a small sigh of relief.

            “Awful being on the diplomatic tour,” he said to her as they walked out of the terminal.  “You must suffer from brass exhaustion.”

            He watched Jean-Luc’s shoulders shake for a minute, and he gave the ensign his most charming smile.  The ensign was no fool, however; she refused to rise to his bait.

            “Aye, sir,” she said.  “The car will bring you straight to Starfleet housing.”  She waited for them to slide inside, and was polite enough not to comment, even though she could see him through the mirror, on the fact that he was now sitting with his knees up to his chest.

           

 

            Jean-Luc shut the door and Will watched in amazement as he half-fell into the sole armchair in the dayroom, laughing silently. 

            “What?” he demanded, dropping his case on the floor.

            “You know what room this is, don’t you?” Jean-Luc was still laughing.

            Will glanced around.  “It’s not the sort of room I associate Starfleet housing with,” he replied. 

            The dayroom was large and airy, with floor to ceiling windows overlooking Montjuich and the city below.  Clearly the Fleet had spared no expense; the sofa was large and thick, the armchair equally so; the furniture was real wood and fabric, not the polymer-based replicated stuff of the typical starship.  The artwork on the walls appeared to be real as well; Will noticed the sound system and the vidpanel, the state-of-the-art replicator as well as a well-stocked mini-bar.  There were flowers too, in a porcelain jug, but they were just part of the décor, not some sort of statement, if that was what Jean-Luc was implying.

            Jean-Luc seemed calmer, but, Will wondered, for how long?

            “There will be,” Jean-Luc said now, “surprises waiting for us in the bedroom.”

            Will narrowed his eyes.  “What kind of surprises?”

            “Go look,” Jean-Luc said, and Will could swear he was smirking.  “I’m going to wash my face, and pour myself a drink.”

            This was, he thought as he walked into the bedroom, a Jean-Luc with whom he was completely unfamiliar.

            “Lights,” he said, “forty percent.”

            Laughter came from the head.

            “Just whose idea of a joke is this?” He could feel outrage, rising from his toes, bubbling towards his throat.

            Jean-Luc placed his hand firmly on Will’s shoulder.  “Captain Vana gave us the honeymoon suite,” he said, and Will could still hear the barely-concealed laughter in his voice.

            “You’re all a barrel of laughs,” he said sourly.  “I expect Captain Vana is a friend of yours.”

            Jean-Luc shrugged, that quintessential gesture of his that made Will want to either hold him or punch him.  “I knew him at the Academy, and we served together as ensigns,” he confessed.

            “This is why you wanted to press on to Sitges,” Will said.

            “Always my stator of the obvious,” Jean-Luc answered.

            Will said, “Is there real alcohol in that mini-bar, or is it synthehol?”

            “You will find a rather nice bottle of champagne,” Jean-Luc said.

            “Fuck.”

            “That, I believe, is the whole point,” Jean-Luc responded, and he was laughing again.  “Surely you are not bothered by a little pink, _mon cher_?”

            Will could feel the outrage again, coiled now in his gut.  “A little!” he exclaimed.  “This has nothing on a bordello in Risa.”

            “A place with which you are no doubt all too familiar,” Jean-Luc said, wryly. 

            Will glanced down at Jean-Luc; saw his dark eyes glinting with amusement.  He gave up, his shoulders relaxing, the outrage dissipating.  “Ouch,” he said, and allowed Jean-Luc to pull his head down and into a kiss.

            “We can remove the offending bedcovers if you wish,” Jean-Luc offered, “and the champagne is quite good and appropriately chilled.  Also, there is a perfectly usable hot tub in the head.  And by usable, William, I mean that it will fit both of us in it at one time.  And I believe that the replicator has been supplied with more festive choices, if you would prefer to eat in, rather than out.”

            Will sighed, and rested his head on Jean-Luc’s shoulder, breathing in that comforting scent that was his Jean-Luc.  “I can make do with replicator food for one more night,” he murmured.  “You did say the villa has a working kitchen.”

            Jean-Luc kissed him again.  “It most certainly does,” he replied.  “I’ve been in contact with Senyora Alicía.  She said she’d bought supplies.”

            “Champagne in the hot tub,” Will agreed, “sounds like a plan to me, Mr Picard.”  He glanced back at the bed.  “But that quilt has to go.”

            “You might get cold,” Jean-Luc teased.

            Will grinned, the outrage gone.  “I think we can find ways to keep me warm, Jean-Luc.”

            “The hot tub it is,” Jean-Luc agreed.

            He was in one of those strange spaces where he had no idea whether he was awake or asleep, and yet he was conscious of wondering which one it was, awake or asleep, and he thought, or at least he thought he was thinking, that he had decided he was asleep when he could feel his legs jump and then he was upright in the bed, having slammed the bed into the wall when he jerked awake.

            “Lights, twenty percent,” Jean-Luc said.  “Will.  You are in Starfleet housing.  I am right beside you.  I’d like to hold you.  Can you nod your head if I may do so?”

            He could feel his feet still arching and his shoulders banging against the headboard.  His hands were trapped in the sheets and he struggled to get them free.

            “Open your eyes,” Jean-Luc said, his voice warm and low.  “Will.  Listen to me.  I’m right here.  You’re safe.  It’s all right.”

            He tried to speak but nothing worked.  Was he awake?  He couldn’t see anything, so he didn’t really know.  He thought he heard Jean-Luc ask him something, but he couldn’t find his hands – where were his hands?

            “Let me do it, Guy,” Jean-Luc said, and Will felt his hands being untangled, and he could breathe again.  “Are you with me now?” Jean-Luc asked.

            His breath was coming in short gasps; not enough air for him to speak.

            “ _Merde_ ,” Jean-Luc said, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

            He found his voice.  “Help me,” he said.

            “I know, William,” Jean-Luc answered, and he sounded very far away.  “I’ll be right there.  It’s all right.”

            “Hurts,” he gasped.

            “Of course it does,” Jean-Luc said, and Will felt the pressure of a hypo spray in his neck.

            The trembling stopped.  He took a breath, and then another.

            “Are you with me now, _mon cher_?” Jean-Luc asked.

            He nodded.  He was crying.  “I hate this,” he said, “I _hate_ it….”

            Jean-Luc climbed into the bed beside him, and pulled him close.  “I know,” he said.  “I know.  I hate it, too.”

            He let Jean-Luc hold him, resting his head against Jean-Luc’s shoulder.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  He knew it was inadequate – the list of things he was sorry for in their relationship kept growing, even as he was supposed to be better – but he had no other words to express what he felt.

            “Oh, Will,” Jean-Luc said.

            He thought perhaps there were a million feelings in those two words, but he found comfort in them, nonetheless.  “McBride gave you hypo sprays for me?” he asked, finally, sitting up and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.  They hadn’t bothered with pyjamas, being too intent on other things, but the sheets were moist with sweat and he was cold.

            “He told me he thought certain symptoms might reappear,” Jean-Luc said.  “So, yes, he gave me medication for you, and he made up a few hypo sprays.”

            “The anti-psychotic?” Will asked, bitterly.

            Jean-Luc hesitated.  Will turned away, his eyes welling, because there was a chasm opening up and he didn’t know what to say or what to do to make it go away.

            “I should have told you,” Jean-Luc said, and Will answered, “Yes.”  He felt Jean-Luc’s hand on his arm.  “Try not to be angry with me, Guy.  It wasn’t deliberate, not telling you.”

            Will said, “McBride thought I would have the night terrors again?  That’s the medication you gave me?  Or did you just give me an anti-anxiety?”

            “Come here,” Jean-Luc said.

            “I don’t want to.”  He sat on the edge of the bed.  He needed to use the head, but he wasn’t sure the medication would allow him to stand.  “I don’t need to be controlled,” he said.

            He heard Jean-Luc sigh.  “You were over-stimulated by the trip.  It was neurological – Will, you _know_ this.”

            “He should have told me.”

            “Yes,” Jean-Luc agreed, standing.  “You are absolutely right.  He should have told you.  It was a mistake not to.”  Jean-Luc came around to his side of the bed.  “What can I do to help, Will?  Besides shutting up and going away?”

            This was still a Jean-Luc he wasn’t familiar with, and he found that he was smiling.  “You’d do that?” he asked.  “Shut up and go away?”

            Jean-Luc’s lip curled a fraction upward.  “If it would help,” he said.  “There is a sofa in the dayroom.”

            “Will you take me to the head, before you go sleep on the couch?  I don’t think I can stand.”

            “Of course,” Jean-Luc said, helping him up.

            They walked to the head. 

            “Shall I get you your pyjamas?” Jean-Luc asked.

            “You aren’t going to watch me pee?”

            “William.”

            “Yes, please,” Will said.  He flushed and washed his hands.

            “Here you go.”  Jean-Luc handed him his pyjamas.

            He put his pyjamas on; watched Jean-Luc dress in his.  “Lights off,” he said, walking into the dayroom.  He was astounded when he saw Jean-Luc grab the atrocious bedcovers from the chair in the bedroom and bring them to the sofa.

            “Jean-Luc?”

            “Yes?” Jean-Luc turned away from the sofa to look at him.

            “We can’t do this,” Will said.

            “No,” Jean-Luc agreed.

            “But you were going to anyway.”

            “You did ask me to.”

            “I – “ He hesitated, searching for what he wanted to say.

            “Take your time, _mon cher_.”

            “I don’t ever want to sleep without you,” he said. 

            “Then tell me what you want, Will.”

            “I want you to come back to bed with me.” He’d found his words.  “I want you to hold me.”

            “Are you sure? I want you to be sure.”

            “Yes,” Will said.  “I’m sure.”

 

 

 

            They were sitting on the verandah, on the second floor outside the master bedroom, of the villa which had belonged to Jean-Luc’s godmother and which now belonged to him.  It had been, Will discovered, yet another point of angry contention between Jean-Luc and Robert; Jean-Luc’s godmother was of an old Catalan family and had property still, even in this day and age, scattered throughout Catalunya.  Robert had godparents as well, but they had contributed to daily life, whereas Jean-Luc had only seen his godmother on holidays at the seaside.  Will had tried to wrap his head around all of this – politics, it seemed to him – there were French Picards, and Spanish Picards, and Catalan Picards – it made him long for the tribe.  The tribe belonged to the parkland outside of Valdez.  They had been there maybe thirty thousand years.  They simply were.  Whatever you chose to call the land around the tribe made absolutely no difference to the tribe at all.  With a perspective of thirty thousand years, everything was ephemeral except the land itself.

            He was sipping iced mint tea, which he had programmed into the replicator in the villa’s kitchen.  Jean-Luc had let his tea grow cold.  There was no replicator in the bedroom, and he thought perhaps he ought to suggest an upgrade, if they were going to use this place – our place, he thought – for their holidays.  He’d decided, upon seeing the walled-in front garden with the little gate, the tiled roof and the clean stucco of the villa itself, the profusion of shrubs and flowers which had once been planted but had become wild, the extent of the back garden, with what looked like a grove of citrus trees near the far wall; he’d decided that he could love this place.  He’d never seen anywhere like it, not even on Risa or Betazed, with their tropical beauty.  This was harder than the tropics; there was a toughness underneath the profusion which was not, he realised, unlike his tribal lands at home.  People worked for a living, here.  They fished, they farmed; they ran small shops and restaurants; they did this because they had always done so.  They did it because it was a tradition to do so, and tradition was something Will knew in blood and bone.

            Jean-Luc had promised to take him to the hotel and the beach, tomorrow; the place he had taken him to on the holodeck.  He could see the water from the verandah; Jean-Luc had suggested sitting out there before bed, because that was when the fishing boats would leave.  They fished at night and came back in in the early dawn.  They turned their running lights on, and he could hear the low thrum of their engines, and the disturbed cries of the seabirds, and even the vague echo of voices.  Otherwise the night was still; a bird sang, once, briefly; insects hummed.  There was another sound – a frog, perhaps?  He didn’t know.  He didn’t care.  Tension and anxiety was sloughing off him like a lizard’s skin.

            “You are better, now,” Jean-Luc said.  “I had hoped that this place – that it might work its special magic on you.  I was always happy, here.”

            He nodded.  “I don’t know how to say it,” he said.  “But I feel it.”

            “It was more, wasn’t it, then just the stress of travelling.”  Jean-Luc didn’t look at him, but he placed his firm hand on Will’s own.  “You tried to tell me, but I talked over you.”

            Will was still watching the water.  “We could buy a boat,” he said.

            Jean-Luc’s face broadened into a brilliant smile.  “We could indeed,” he agreed.  Then he said, running his fingers across the back of Will’s hand, “You shouldn’t let me do that, Will.  Talk over you.  You should tell me to wait.  I can do that, you know.  I can wait, while you find your words to tell me.”

            “I can try,” Will offered.  “But – you are my captain – I know, not in our relationship – still, the habit is there.  Sir.  To listen to you.  To not interrupt.”

            He heard Jean-Luc sigh, and he shrugged. 

            “I have always listened to you, Will, as my First Officer.”

            Will nodded.  “Far more than any other of my captains have, even with Captain De Soto.”

            Jean-Luc sighed again.  “Can you tell me, what it was?  Or should I leave it, for tonight?”

            Will felt a grin beginning to form.  “It’s stupid,” he said.

            “Of course it is,” Jean-Luc answered.  “I would be surprised if it weren’t.”

            Will said, “I love you.”

            “I know you do, Guy,” Jean-Luc replied.

            “You’ll let me figure out what to say?”  He felt stupid, asking this, because Jean-Luc had just said he would – but, he realised, it was important to ask it again.  Because the reassurance was important.  It was okay to ask for reassurance.  He could be safe, asking for it.  He felt a little overwhelmed, and then it was okay, because Jean-Luc _knew_ him, and had taken his hand.

            “We have all the time in the world, Guy,” Jean-Luc said.

            He was breathing.  And the tea was cold, and the glass was moist with condensation, and the night was still.  He said, “We’ve never really been alone together, just the two of us.  No ship.  No crew.  No crisis.”  He paused, because he wanted to get this right.  “We know each other, but we don’t.  You know me as your First.  And you know me ill.  But I’m just Will, now, I hope – or Guy – and I’m not sure who we are.  To each other….”  He found himself trailing off, but Jean-Luc remained quiet, holding his hand.  “In a way it’s frightening.  We’re married – I’m not sure I even know what that means, other than the sex is good.”  He tried to laugh, but it wasn’t there.  “My days have been so structured…” He lapsed into silence.  Once again, words eluded him.  He said, “When I was a little kid, Mrs Shugak – I mean, Auntie Tasya – had a schedule for me on our kitchen wall.  It told me when everything happened.  Meals, bedtime, chores, homework, baseball practise, doctors’ appointments, even play.  Because I would get so scared, when I didn’t know what was happening next.  And then I would have these tantrums, where I could feel them coming and I couldn’t stop them, where I would just scream and cry and rage.  Throw myself on the floor.  Mr Shugak – Uncle Marty – would hold me.  For hours.  Until it stopped or I fell asleep.”

            “My poor sweet boy,” Jean-Luc said.  “Of course you’re right, Will.  There’s nothing stupid here, about what you’re saying.”

            “There isn’t?” Will asked.

            Jean-Luc shook his head.  “I will confess to being more than a little nervous too,” he said, kissing Will’s hand.  “What if I really am too old for you?  What if you find me dry and boring, as many other people have?  What if we have nothing in common at all – thirty years being so very long?”

            “What if you find out that I’m really too stupid to understand you.  That I’m just as shallow as everyone thinks I am.”

            “I am not your father, Guy,” Jean-Luc said.

            “No,” Will agreed.  “I know that, Jean-Luc.”  He took a breath.  “So what do we do?”

            Jean-Luc stood up.  “Let’s go to bed,” he replied.  “In the morning we’ll make a schedule.  And then let’s find a marina and rent a boat.”

            “Okay,” Will said.  He followed Jean-Luc into the bedroom, closing the French doors behind him.  “And maybe a fish market?  I’d like to try my hand at making dinner.”

            “Sailing and dinner it is, then,” Jean-Luc agreed.

            “This is just what people do, isn’t it?” Will asked.  He didn’t care that it was a stupid question.  Jean-Luc always answered his stupid questions.  “When they’re just married.  Normal people, I mean.  They make a few plans and then they just do them.”  He was going to say something else, but Jean-Luc kissed him, and the distraction was too pleasant to worry about it anymore.

            He slept through the night, and when he woke, it was because it was ninety minutes before alpha shift, and Jean-Luc was kissing the back of his neck.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will has one last conversation with da Costa, and shares a moment alone with Jean-Luc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In The St Valentine's Day Massacre, Jean-Luc took Will via the holodeck to a hotel in Sitges, where they danced to Sarah Vaughan's rendition of "Tenderly."

 

 

 

 

            “Will.”  Da Costa was walking down the path towards him.

            “Yeah?”  He was cleaning the pond’s pump.  “Jean-Luc is still resting?”

            “As far as I know,” da Costa said.  “Surely you didn’t have to do that today.”

            Will looked up, the pump’s filter in his hand.  “You know me well enough, Joao,” he answered, “to know that I absolutely had to do this, today.”  He put the pump and the filter down, and used one of Jean-Luc’s handkerchiefs to wipe his face.  “Besides,” he added.  “It really needed to be cleaned.  The fish would have started dying.”

            “Sascha and Rose are back,” da Costa said.  “Do you want some help?”

            He grinned.  “And get your uniform dirty?  I don’t think so.”

            “You’re angry,” da Costa remarked.  “Because we didn’t tell you?”

            “No,” Will answered, considering.  “I think this anger is more existential.”

            “Nothing I can help with, then.” 

            Will stood up; wiped his hands on his trousers.  “No,” he agreed.  “Nothing that anyone can do.  It is what it is, and there’s no magic wand in your bag of tricks, da Costa, that will change anything.”

            “There is someone here I’d like you to see,” da Costa said.  “A civilian.”

            Will stared at the pond for a moment.  “I really have to finish this,” he answered.

            “So I’ll talk, and you’ll listen.”

            “Maybe,” Will said, “I simply don’t feel like it.”

            Da Costa said, “We talked yesterday, Admiral Riker, about giving you and the Ambassador more support.  I would prefer not to put in my report that you have refused that support.  You are not the only person who is concerned for Ambassador Picard’s welfare.”  Da Costa paused.  “Or yours.”

            Will stood there, silently, and then he bent down and picked up the pump and hurled it.  He would have liked to punch da Costa in his stupid face, but he turned away, and bent over, his hands clutching his knees.  When he stood up, he walked to where he’d thrown the pump and picked it up.  He could hear the bees in the citrus blossoms, and he took a breath, and then another.  Da Costa was waiting for him at the pond.  He had, he thought, known Joao da Costa for thirty-six years.  Perhaps that was why he wanted nothing more than to simply kill him where he stood.  He sighed and walked back to the pond.

            “I don’t care to be threatened, Captain,” Admiral Riker said.  “And you do not have the right to accuse me of not taking proper care of my husband.  Do you understand?  Jean-Luc Picard is my _husband_ , and that relationship trumps over any bullshit interest that Starfleet or the Federation can claim.”

            “You misunderstand me,” da Costa replied.

            “Fuck you, da Costa.  I understand you only too well.  You can tell Starfleet and the Federation to back the fuck off.  They care about Jean-Luc Picard so much?  Then where’s the cure, da Costa?  Tell me that.”

            Da Costa sighed.  “The person I want you and Jean-Luc to see is not associated with Starfleet or the Federation.  She is simply a therapist who specialises in geriatrics and geriatric care.  She will be there to see you together and separately, and then finally to help you as Jean-Luc’s condition worsens.  As for a cure, Will – you know damned well that even if Starfleet Medical came up with a cure for this disease tomorrow, it would not help Jean-Luc.  The damage has already been done.”

            Will said, “I already have a psychiatrist.  Even if he _is_ an asshole.”

            “You should really clean that filter,” da Costa remarked.

            “Oh, fuck you.”  He turned on the hose, and began to clean the pump housing.

            “I will make an appointment to speak with you once every two weeks,” da Costa said.  “We can adjust the frequency to everyday as the situation worsens.  Are you sure I can’t help you with that?”

            “I have been cleaning this pump once a week for the past five years,” Will replied.  “We have an intimate relationship.”

            Da Costa rolled his eyes.  “I’ve left the information with both Ensign Locarno and Sascha.  I’ve already told her you’ll be calling to set up an appointment.”

            Will changed the filter and reinstalled the pump, using the handkerchief to wipe his face and then his hands.  “I expect,” he said, standing, “that you’ve already asked Locarno to make that call.  You really do overstep your bounds, da Costa.  You always have.”

            Da Costa shrugged.  “I have a professional obligation to take care of you, Admiral Riker,” he replied.  “And I owe my career to Captain Picard.  Sometimes, Will,” da Costa added, “those obligations are seen as interference.”

            “Sometimes?” Will said, but there was no longer any anger in his voice.  “Hello, Rose,” he said, smiling.  “Everything all set for tonight?”

            “Captain da Costa,” Rose said.  “Grae’s offered to take you to Les Fonts whenever you’re ready.  Are you coming in, Dad?  Papi was asking for you.”

            “Yes,” Will answered.  “Pump’s clean and the fish will be okay.  I expect Papi is hungry, and I’m sure dinner will be later than when we usually eat.  Are you staying for lunch, Joao?”

            “I think perhaps you’ve seen enough of me for the time being,” da Costa replied, grinning.  “Thank you, Lieutenant.  I will definitely take Dr McKean up on his offer.”

            As they walked back to the house, Will said, placing his hand on da Costa’s shoulder, “I never liked Dr McBride either.”

            “Of course you didn’t,” da Costa replied, laughing.

 

 

            Jean-Luc was still in bed, lying on his side, his eyes closed.

            “Hey, old man,” Will said, bending down to kiss his cheek.  “Rose told me you were asking for me.”

            Jean-Luc opened his eyes.  “Will,” he said, grabbing onto Will’s chest.  “Will.  I couldn’t think where you were –“

            “Shhh,” Will responded, sitting on the edge of the bed.  He took Jean-Luc in his arms and held him.  “I’m right here.”

            “I couldn’t think,” Jean-Luc repeated.  “For a moment I thought I’d lost you –“

            “I know,” Will said.  “Just a little bit of fog, Jeannot, that’s all it was.  It’s been a long week.  Too much, for both of us.”

            “But I haven’t lost you, have I?” Jean-Luc murmured into Will’s chest.

            “No.”  Will wrapped one of his hands around Jean-Luc’s head and kissed him.  “You’re stuck with me, remember?  Can’t drive me away.”

            “We’ve got something to do,” Jean-Luc said, “something important.”

            “We have our anniversary party tonight,” Will reminded him.  “Remember, the surprise party Rose organised?”

            Jean-Luc was silent, and Will could feel his heart pounding.  He’d known it would be too much, all of this, the company, the kids, the emotion of the gift-giving.  He said, “It’s all right, my love.  You don’t have to go anywhere or do anything.  You can stay right here.  We’ll both stay right here.”  Jean-Luc was weeping silently; Will said, “You used to do this for me, do you remember, Jean-Luc?”  He waited, and then he added, “Even after it was all over, and my father was gone…there were all those weeks of treatment, do you remember?  I would get halfway through the day and then I just couldn’t do it anymore.  You held me, just like this, even though you must have had better things to do than handhold your first officer.”

            “I didn’t have more important things to do,” Jean-Luc said, looking up, and his eyes had cleared.  “You were what was important.  When you said to me, in that flat, that you’d thought I wouldn’t come for you, that you thought you weren’t important enough for me to help you – I realised then that wasn’t true.  You were more important than anything else, Will.  All those times you risked your career for me, and your life for me – you were teaching me something I needed to learn.”  Jean-Luc wiped his face and sat up.  “It was too late for Jack.  It wasn’t too late for you.”

            Will remembered to breathe.  “Would you like me to fix you something to eat?” he asked.  “I’m sure you’re hungry.”

            “It does seem to be related, doesn’t it?”  Jean-Luc asked.

            “What is, Jean-Luc?”

            “Me being hungry, or overtired, and the fog,” Jean-Luc said.  “But, Will –“

            “Yes?”  He wanted to pull Jean-Luc to him again, but he could tell Jean-Luc was feeling better, and he didn’t want to be overbearing.

            “I think the new medication is working,” Jean-Luc said.  “The beginning of the week was hard, wasn’t it?  But I think I’m better now.”

            “Yes, and yes,” Will agreed, and he wrapped his arms around Jean-Luc again.  “You’ve put up with a great deal this week.  And you’ve done well.”

            “So you won’t cancel the party tonight, then, Will?” Jean-Luc asked.  “Because I was looking forward to it.”

            Will found himself grinning.  “Oh, you were, were you?” he said.  “Dress whites and all?  Half of Starfleet hounding me about your health, and tiptoeing around you?”

            “You will have to,” Jean-Luc told him, pulling away, and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, “tie my tie.  And I will probably not know the names of half the people there, so you will have to remind me.”

            “Oh, thank God,” Will said.  “I was worried.”

            Jean-Luc glanced at him, his eyes dark.  “You were worried about what?” he asked.

            “I was worried I was out of a job, Jean-Luc,” Will said, standing.  “I have so few of them anymore.”

            “What the hell are you talking about?”

            “I still get to tie your tie,” Will said, “after thirty-six years.”

            Jean-Luc said, standing, “And you say I’m the asshole in this relationship.”

            “So can I fix you a sandwich, Jean-Luc?” Will asked, walking behind him into the head.  “Or is there something else you’d rather have?”

            “You still have those herrings?”  Jean-Luc washed his face.

            “Herrings on toast?” Will stood behind Jean-Luc, his hands on Jean-Luc’s shoulders.

            “Lovely,” Jean-Luc said.  “I hear the children.”

            “Better make an appearance, then,” Will agreed.  “Feeling better now?”

            “Yes.”

            They walked out of the bedroom, and Will helped Jean-Luc navigate the stairs.

            “Are we still going to have weather tonight, Mr Riker?” Jean-Luc asked.

            “No,” Will answered.  “It’s off to the east of us now.”

            “Dancing under the stars, then?”

            “You still want to dance with me, Jean-Luc?” he asked.

            “We can pretend,” Jean-Luc promised, “we are back on the holodeck, and Sarah Vaughan is singing.”

            Will found himself humming “Tenderly” as they walked into the kitchen.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Jean-Luc attend their anniversary party at Les Fonts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks go out to my friends and beta readers extraordinaire, eimeo and soavezefiretto, as well as to all of those other readers and readers who have become friends, who have supported not only A Million Sherds but all of the ensuing works in the post-Sherds universe. 
> 
> I'm not abandoning my Will and Jean-Luc permanently, but I am going to be busy finishing up the RW novel, and there are several surprises in the Trek world that will have my name on them.
> 
> Special thanks too, to my Star Trek friends Chris M and Mobius, for supporting my writing and for being my go-to Trek researcher.

 

25. 

 

 

 

            As the afternoon waned, he joined Jean-Luc in the library, sending Locarno off to do whatever it was Locarno did when he wasn’t “minding” Jean-Luc.  Jean-Luc wasn’t reading, not really; just sitting there, his eyes closed, the book in his lap.  He wondered whether he should take the book before it fell, but unlike earlier in the week, he had no intention of leaving Jean-Luc alone.  He sat down in the other armchair and booted up his padd, resolving to read the latest report Starfleet had sent him.

            “Jean-Guy said you were in your study.”  Jean-Luc sat up, reaching around to place the book on the desk.

            “He was here with you?” Will asked, still looking at the report.

            “Mmh-mmh.”  Jean-Luc stretched.  “Will.”

            “Yes?”  He didn’t glance up, as there was a piece of information in this latest report that seemed to be eluding him.

            “He’d like to talk to you.”

            “Who would?”

            “Jean-Guy.”

            “Okay.”  Jean-Luc didn’t say anything else, and fine-tuned as he was to Jean-Luc’s moods, Will thought he heard some criticism in that silence.  He sighed and shut down his padd, and then placed it on the desk, next to Jean-Luc’s copy of _The Aeneid_.  “I’m listening,” he said, leaning forward to take Jean-Luc’s hands.

            “He read your score, the other day,” Jean-Luc began.  “I think I may have mentioned it, I can’t remember.”

            “You did, mention it,” Will answered.  “And he shouldn’t have.  It’s not ready for anyone to see.”

            “He was curious.  And now – now he needs to talk to you about it, because all of a sudden you are real to him.”

            Surprised, Will said, “I don’t understand.”

            “You’ve changed the landscape of his childhood, Will,” Jean-Luc explained.  “He’s looking back and trying to reinterpret everything he ever thought he knew.  Shh—“ Jean-Luc touched Will’s mouth lightly.  “Before you say that’s why you didn’t what to tell them – You were just his dad, before.  Now you are a man – and a musician, apparently of some brilliance, according to him.”

            “It might be good,” Will conceded.  “But it’s not finished.  And I wouldn’t know what to say.”

            “I rather doubt that, Guy,” Jean-Luc replied, standing.  “You share a language, you and our son, one I only wish I could share.”  He stretched and then took Will’s hand again.  “It’s late.  I suppose we should think about getting dressed.”

            “Should I call Locarno, to help you up the stairs?” Will stood as well, and they walked slowly out of Jean-Luc’s library.

            “I can manage, with your help,” Jean-Luc answered.  “You’ll talk to him, Guy?”

            “Of course I will.”  He placed his arm around Jean-Luc’s waist, and they took the stairs carefully, one step at a time.  “Before we leave on our holiday, Jean-Luc, I’ll need to make arrangements with Pau to hire someone to draw up the renovations.”

            “Yes.”  They’d reached the landing, and Jean-Luc paused to catch his breath.  “I think we should consider moving downstairs.  We could turn the two bedrooms into one.”

            “I’ll miss our view,” Will said as they walked into the bedroom.  “We have time, if you want to sit out there with me.  I saw the windjammer in the bay, yesterday.”

            “Did you?”  Jean-Luc followed him out the French doors.  “The local one or the one we’ll be taking?”

            “It was the day schooner,” Will answered, standing at the wrought-iron railing.  He placed his arm around Jean-Luc’s waist and they stood there, listening, Will thought, to the sounds of this -- their home.  Because, he realised, he’d been home from the very first second he’d stepped on the transporter pad of the _D_ from Farpoint Station, where a Lieutenant Yar had been waiting to escort him to meet his captain.  From a vantage point of almost forty years, _Jean-Luc_ had been his home – the physical setting hadn’t mattered at all.  “You know,” he said to Jean-Luc now, drawing him in, “you remember, when we spent our first night here?”

            “On our honeymoon?”

            Will hadn’t been looking at Jean-Luc, but he’d heard the smirk.  “Yes,” he said, and then he added, “And you’ve always said _I_ was the silly one.”

            “Ah,” Jean-Luc answered.  “This is a serious conversation, then.”

            “I suppose so.”  Will rested his head against Jean-Luc’s.  “Does it make sense to you to say that sometimes I forget that I can remember things?”

            Jean-Luc was quiet, and then he remarked, “Perhaps I am one of the few to which that does make sense.”

            “This – “ He paused, trying to find words, and then he realised that the words were there, waiting for him. “Our anniversary, and then what we started, telling the kids my story…it’s brought back things I remember.  But maybe it was writing the symphony that started it.  The remembering, I mean.  So much of what I remember gets turned into music, somehow. A tune.  A chord.”  He took a breath.  “We were sitting here, for the first time, looking out to sea.  And you were worried, because I’d been so anxious.”

            “Yes, I remember.”

            “I was anxious because we’d never been alone together, as two people, and I didn’t know how it would work, how I could make it work,” Will said.  “I was too new at being normal, I think.”

            Jean-Luc smiled, and took Will’s hand.  “Surely you remember I was a little nervous myself,” he said.

            “I know.” Will glanced at Jean-Luc and grinned.  “You have no idea how surprised I was when you told me that – but –“ he was laughing now “– I know, Jean-Luc, I don’t have the corner on the market of anxiety – I think it was just that I was too wrapped up in my own head to notice how nervous you were….You have distracted me,” Will said, “and there was something I wanted to say.”

            “You had better say it quickly, then,” Jean-Luc responded, “before you morph back into your more taciturn nature.”

            Will hesitated.  “Are you taking the piss?” he asked, finally.

            Jean-Luc shrugged.  Will glanced away, not wanting Jean-Luc to see that his eyes were tearing.  “I just wanted to say,” Will began, “that when we were sitting out here, for that first time – when you offered me this place as our – our sanctuary, I guess, from duty and illness and the expectations of other people – I realised for the first time that my life was real – I don’t know how else to explain it – and that you were real, and that we were going to have this real life together, the both of us.  That I wasn’t ever going to have to be alone again.”  He turned back to Jean-Luc.  “It was terrifying – see, I have more than ten words now – and yet, it was – it made me feel happy.  We’ve been happy, together, haven’t we?”

            “Oh, Will,” Jean-Luc said.

            “I love you, old man.”

            “We’d better get dressed,” Jean-Luc answered.  “It wouldn’t do for the car to arrive and we’re neither one of us ready.”

            “Okay,” Will agreed.

            “Guy,” Jean-Luc said as they walked back into the bedroom.  “You only had to say you didn’t want to move downstairs.”

           

 

 

            “Why aren’t we all riding together?” Will asked.  He was pacing in the kitchen, having made Jean-Luc a cup of tea. 

            “William.”  Jean-Luc set his mug on the table.

            “Yeah?” Will was at the door, looking out.  “That stupid cat is in the fishpond again,” he said.

            “Sit down.”

            “I’ll uncrease my uniform.”

            “Mr Riker.”

            “Put the captain in his uniform and orders appear,” Will said, but he sat down.

            “You’ve had too much coffee,” Jean-Luc told him, “and your anxiety is out of place.”

            Will grinned.  “Oh, it is, is it?”

            “Starfleet is sending us a car, because we are the guests of honour,” Jean-Luc said, “and apparently there will be enough brass there to warrant this sort of fussiness.  Locarno needs his air car so he can go home, and he and Jean-Guy have become friends.”

            “I liked your idea about slipping away better,” Will complained.

            Jean-Luc was wearing his neutral expression.  “You’ll behave,” he said; and that, Will thought, was that.

           

 

           

            The weather had gone east, just as Will predicted, and the evening was warm and mild, with a sliver of a moon rising over the horizon.  The air car, driven by some anonymous ensign from Steen’s office, pulled into the front of Les Fonts, all pillars and fairy lights, the admiral’s flag displayed so that the car was saluted as it arrived.  Formally-dressed staff opened the doors and helped Jean-Luc step out, and then opened the door for him as he stood and stretched.  Regardless of the size of the back of an air car he always felt as if he were sitting with his knees in his face.  Jean-Luc was waiting for him on the portico, and he walked over to stand with him. 

            “Should we wait for Jean-Guy and Locarno to arrive?” he asked.  “They were right behind us.”  He couldn’t see Locarno’s car.

            “I think,” Jean-Luc said, “we will be escorted in.”

            “Oh my God,” Will muttered.  “How on earth did either one of our children grow up with us and think that we would appreciate this nonsense?”

            Jean-Luc’s lip twitched.  “Perhaps the combination of Rose’s impulsivity and Sascha’s formality has met in some sort of perfect storm,” he said.

            Will wondered if it were possible to die laughing.  “If I laugh at inappropriate moments tonight, old man,” he warned, “it will be your fault.”  Then he saw who was coming to escort them and he said, “Fuck.  It’s the village idiot himself.”

            “Admiral Riker.  Ambassador Picard.”  Commander Egan Steen shook their hands.  “Or should I address you as Captain Picard tonight, sir?”

            “Just don’t call either one of us late for dinner, Commander,” Will said, forestalling whatever irritated response Jean-Luc might have given. 

            Steen chuckled, and Will felt Jean-Luc place a restraining hand on his arm.  “Lay on, Macduff,” Will said, quoting correctly, and was gratified when he saw Jean-Luc’s lip turn upwards.

            He felt Jean-Luc press into him as they walked into the lobby, filled with staff and other guests, all of them no doubt surprised by the sea of Starfleet white. 

            “We are in the formal dining room tonight,” Steen said, “this way, gentlemen.”

            “She really did invite half of fucking Starfleet,” Will said.

            “Indeed,” Jean-Luc replied.  “Our wedding was small in comparison.”

            “At least there won’t be the damned sabre arch tonight,” Will remarked.  “How is it that I didn’t get the memo on that?”

            This time Jean-Luc smiled.  “Our Mr Data wanted to surprise you,” he said, “and Admiral Laidlaw was in favour of it.”

            “No doubt you were in favour of it as well,” Will said.  “At least you didn’t want to dress up in those silly English naval uniforms.”

            “Of course not,” Jean-Luc answered.  “Having spent half of my career wearing a dress, these uniforms are quite satisfactory.”

            Will grinned and then said, “Son.”

            “Sir,” Sascha said.  “Rose and I will escort you to the head table.”

            The room was full and he searched for the familiar; Beverly Crusher’s red hair; Geordi; Worf; was that Laidlaw?  He glanced down and saw that a certain Lieutenant Riker-Picard had taken his arm, even as Commander Riker-Picard had taken Jean-Luc’s.  He was going to ask where Jean-Guy was, but then he saw his youngest on the bandstand, with Jai Patel – and was that Maelys?  Where the hell had Sascha and Rose found her?

            “Breathe, Dad,” Rose whispered, and he nodded, as he and Jean-Luc entered a silent room to Starfleet white, all of them at attention as they walked past.  Perhaps, he thought, being Admiral of the Fleet had meant something after all.  As they reached their seats at the head table, his old swing band broke into the Naval Hymn, the same one Maelys had sung at their wedding; her contralto still vibrant, still dark, still rich.  They waited until the hymn was over and the room broke into spontaneous applause – and as they sat they saw Valentine Laidlaw rise, still looking as if it were thirty-five years ago, with only his hair streaked with white to show the passage of time.

            “Since it was my honour to marry these two gentlemen thirty-five years ago,” Valentine Laidlaw said, “Alexandré Riker-Picard asked if I would give the first toast, as my cousin and Alexandré’s namesake Alasdair McBride is no longer here with us to repeat that honour.”  The room had quieted, and Laidlaw said, “Thirty-six years ago, I was introduced to a starship captain and his first officer, both of whom had apparently written the book on insubordination and derring-do, in what can only be regarded as an extraordinarily dangerous time for Starfleet and the Federation.  It was thanks to their courage that we continue to have both the Federation and Starfleet today.”

            Will managed not to roll his eyes, as he felt Jean-Luc take his hand under the table.

            “Will and Jean-Luc, you remain an inspiration to us all,” Laidlaw said.  “Here’s to your continuing life together.  May it be blessed with joy.   _L’chaim_!”

            A few minutes later, as they were being served the first course, Worf said, “I never thought you were insubordinate, Captain.  You simply did what needed to be done.”

            “Thank you, Worf,” Jean-Luc replied.  “Coming from you that is high praise indeed.”

            “He called me insubordinate too,” Will remarked, glancing at Worf.

            Worf shrugged.  “Sir,” he said, and then he paused.

            “Well?” Will demanded.

            “I’m sorry, sir,” Worf said, finally.  “In which situation did you want me to say you weren’t insubordinate?”

            Will thought for a moment and then he said, “They made me admiral, anyway.”

            “It was that or the brig, _mon cher_ ,” Jean-Luc said, and Will laughed along with everyone else.

 

 

            “Dad,” Jean-Guy said, as they were finishing dessert.

            “Yes?”  Will had been quiet, thinking of those whose faces belonged at this table:  Deanna’s.  Data’s.  McBride’s.  Mrs Troi’s.  Even, he thought, Ambassador Spock’s, although it would have been unlikely that he would have ever agreed to come to a function such as this one.

            “I brought your ‘bone,” Jean-Guy said. “I thought you might like to take a couple sets.”

            “You thought that, or Jai did?” Will asked.

            Jean-Guy was nothing if not honest.  “We both did,” he answered.

            “I haven’t played in public in some time,” Will said.

            “Jean-Guy.”  Jean-Luc turned away from his conversation with Marie. 

            “Sir?”

            “The Admiral is not being particularly truthful,” Jean-Luc said, resting his hand on Will’s.  “He has a chamber group he plays with, and his students have a combo he performs in.”

            “Great!” Jean-Guy said.  “We can play together, Dad.  If you’ll excuse me –“

            Jean-Guy stood up and walked towards the bandstand, where the remaining players of the Riker Swing Band had started to gather. 

            “I thought you wanted me to stay with you,” Will said.

            “Marie and Beverly will stay with me,” Jean-Luc answered, “and Mr Locarno is hovering close by.  You play with our son.  It’s something he’s been looking forward to.”

            “You won’t mind?”

            “Will,” Jean-Luc said.

            “Holding up okay, then?”

            “Yes,” Jean-Luc replied.  “Holding up.”

            He was not terribly surprised when he heard the first notes of his former bandmates; they’d been with him, after all, when he’d pulled off the coup of bringing a certain singer who was also an astrophysicist to the band.  It had, of course, become their official theme song, even as both he and Jean-Luc invariably thought that Sarah Vaughan’s “Tenderly” was.  That, however, was a little bit of private information he didn’t want to share with anyone, not even his own kids.

            “Admiral Riker?” Jean-Luc was standing. 

            He didn’t look particularly frail, at this moment; he simply looked as he had always done, the captain standing there, immaculate, his dark eyes focused on the only person (“Me!” Will thought) in the room who truly mattered.

            “Yes, Captain Picard?” Will answered, taking the hand that was offered.

            “May I have this dance?” Jean-Luc asked, his lip turning upward in the half-smile only Will recognised.

            “Command performance,” Will quipped, but then he smiled and said, “Yes.”

            “She still sings beautifully,” Jean-Luc remarked.

            Will nodded, pulling Jean-Luc in, and then he whispered, “Let’s go outside.”

            Jean-Luc nodded, and they slipped away, out to the patio and the pool and the fairy lights, out to moonlight on an indigo sea. 

            “I hope,” Jean-Luc said, “that you don’t mind, Will,”

            Because the band had begun the next set, with Jean-Guy leading on his horn, and then the soft rich voice of Maelys LePatourel drifted out to them as they danced in that world they’d made for each other thirty-five years before, in the moonlight on the beach in Sitges.

           

           

 

           

 

 

           

           

           

 

           

           

           

           


End file.
